


for here you are, standing there, loving me

by JourEtNuit



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, F/F, Family Feels, Slow Burn, Sound of Music AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:48:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22398838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JourEtNuit/pseuds/JourEtNuit
Summary: Ex-air force pilot Yang Xiao Long has come back to live with her family after loosing an arm in a plane crash, until she's sent to the house of Captain Blake Belladonna, a Navy officer who needs help keeping her three adopted children safe from her past.But while the two of them slowly learn how to be happy again, together, the threat of Salem's army grows stronger every day...---Or, the Sound Of Music AU absolutely no one asked for, but here we are!
Relationships: Blake Belladonna/Yang Xiao Long
Comments: 61
Kudos: 177





	1. How do you solve a problem like Yang Xiao Long?

Ruby hears the music first. Wistful guitar chords and the low, plaintive voice of a male singer, coming through the open door. Yang always has the radio on, these days, especially when she’s working on her pet project.

Speaking of. Underneath the melody, the grating sound of a power drill resonates, faint but unmistakable to Ruby’s experienced ears. And if she needed any more evidence of her sister’s presence, the yellow motorbike propped up against the fence is impossible to miss. Yep, Yang’s here, just like Ruby thought. Yang’s probably been here all day long, cooped up in the lonely hangar on the other side of Patch Island. Ruby parks her dad’s truck on the dusty side road. Technically, the hangar and surrounding land belong to their uncle, Qrow, to use as an emergency landing site if he’s ever in trouble, set up with a shabby-looking but functional runway. But it’s not like Qrow needs the place at the moment, given that he’s in Atlas, with the bulk of the allied forces. He’s a pilot, see, just like Yang is… _was_. 

Ruby winces. Silently scolding herself, she gets out of the truck, and hurries towards the building. As soon as she walks through the door, she wrinkles her nose at the smell. “You should know better than to smoke in here.”

There’s a muffled curse. Yang’s head emerges from under the white belly of the atlesian aircraft occupying the middle of the hangar. When she spots Ruby, she rolls the rest of her body out, smiling. Her mane of blond hair is tied up in a messy ponytail. A purple bandana keeps it from falling into her face. 

“Jesus, Ruby, you scared me. Make some noise next time, will you?”

“Like you’d hear me over the radio,” Ruby says, turning down the volume of the old-fashioned machine sitting on the workbench. There’s a pack of cigarettes beside it, an ashtray, and a pair of aviator glasses. Ruby shakes her head. “I meant what I said about the smoking. Dad would kill you if he knew. Safety…”

“…first, I know,” Yang finishes, dismissive. She props herself up, stretching her arms above her head. The surface of her prosthesis glints as it catches the late afternoon sunlight, making Ruby’s chest tighten unpleasantly. Almost six months since the crash, and she’s still not quite used to seeing metal instead of flesh. “Have you come to check up on me again?” Yang asks, narrowing her eyes. “Because I’m right in the middle of fixin’ this beauty, and I gotta lot of work to do still.”

“Yeah, I can see you’re nowhere near done,” Ruby comments, playfully, making a show of looking the airship over with her most judgmental pout. 

Yang snorts. “Jerk.” She pats the side of the plane, affectionate, like one would a very big horse. “Don’t listen to her, girl, we’ve made plenty of progress.”

The truth is, Yang’s worked wonders on the old aircraft. The thing’s been grounded in that hangar for as long as Ruby can remember, slowly gathering dust, rusting away, until Yang decided she was going to repair it all on her own. Not much to do while she’s recovering from the loss of her arm, she’d said, might as well make something whole again. Ruby thrusts her hands inside the pockets of her jeans. “I’m kidding. It’s looking much better,” she says, softly. She doesn’t say _You’re looking better too_ , because, well. She’s never lied to Yang before.

Yang shrugs, though she looks pleased, leaving her beloved machine to lean against the workbench. “Thanks, sis.” She tugs a cigarette from the pack, sticks it between her teeth, fishes out a lighter from her back pocket.

Before she can light her cigarette, the song on the radio cuts off abruptly, replaced by a nasal voice. “We interrupt our regular program to report another border incident between the allied forces under General Ironwood’s command and Salem’s troops. Casualties are estimated to be….” 

Without hesitation, Yang turns off the radio. “I’m not in the mood for bad news.”

In the silence that follows, Ruby fidgets. She wishes she was better with words, the way her mother was. Summer would know what to say. She would sit in front of Yang and extract the truth of her feelings like a fisherman reeling in his catch: slow, careful, inexorable. And then Ruby would know what her sister needs from her, from all of them, and she could help her.

But Summer isn’t here. In the hangar, there is only Ruby, and Yang, and a big rusted airship. Yang smokes, waiting for Ruby to speak. The airship stands, large and still and unhelpful, between the two of them.

Ruby takes a breath. “Dad wants to see you.” 

“Why?” Yang replies, squashing the butt of her cigarette into the ashtray. “Is he pissed off that I wasn’t at the shop today?”

“Don’t know. He just told me it was important, and I should go get you right away.”

Ruby doesn’t say what she thinks, which is that since Yang barely shows up for her shifts at the family garage anymore, their father would be well within his rights to feel some degree of irritation. Patch isn’t a big island, but theirs is the only garage shop, so there is still a fair amount of work. She also doesn’t say that whatever feelings their father may be harboring towards Yang, he isn’t _angry_ at her. She knows for sure, because she has many feelings of her own about her big sister, but anger is not among them.

Instead, she says, “I’m parked outside. Want me to drive you back to the house?”, and is pleasantly surprised when Yang agrees. 

***

When Yang peers past the open door into his office, she finds her father sitting at the desk, frowning at his account book as he scribbles notes in the margins. He doesn’t notice her, focused as he is on the no-doubt thrilling task at hand, and so Yang takes a moment to look at him.

Taiyang Xiao Long looks older, these days. Grey speckled through his blond curly hair - the same color as Yang’s, but cut short. His face creased with new lines that seemed to have appeared in the last six months. Dark circles under his eyes. For a man in his mid-forties, he looks too old, tired, overworked. 

A sharp prick of guilt, all too familiar, pierces Yang’s chest. She clears her throat. “Hi Dad, you wanted a word?”

Tai looks up, smiling warmly. “Come on in, kiddo, I’m almost done with this. Gimme a minute and I’m all yours.” When he smiles, the corner of his eyes crinkle, and the lines on his face soften, just a bit. He looks more like the man he used to be, before the war took so much from their family, and the lines of laughter on his face turned into lines of grief.

Yang lets herself fall into the familiar shape of the worn out leather armchair in front of the desk. It’s funny - her dad has changed, over the years, and she has too, but his office still looks the same now as it did fifteen years ago. Same leather armchair, same cluttered desk buried under piles of bills and papers and books. Same old bookshelf that always looks dusty, no matter how many times they clean it. The framed picture of Yang and Ruby and their mother at the beach, that one summer they went on a trip to Menagerie, before the war first broke out. The tin box full of dog treats perched precariously on top of Tai’s file cabinet, out of Zwei’s reach, though it doesn’t stop the dog from barking pleadingly every time he enters the room. The massive clock tucked by the window ticks second after second after second, the same as it’s always done.

Surrounded by the familiar sights and sounds and smells of her childhood, Yang waits, sinking into the armchair and watching her dad work. Guilt is still prickling beneath her skin, like an annoying splinter. She’s been avoiding him, and avoiding the shop, for months now, ever since she was allowed out of her bed, even though she knows he needs all the help he can get, with Ruby spending half her time training with Patch’s volunteer corps. 

(She pushes the thought of her little sister preparing for combat out of her mind as soon as it comes up. That thought leads to a very different feeling, much _much_ worse than guilt.)

Back to the point. It’s not that Yang hates the work, or being around her dad for that matter. It’s just that ever since she remembered the old airship in Qrow’s hangar, she hasn’t been able to focus on anything else. Hasn’t been willing to, either. After long weeks spent bedridden and numb from the pain meds, her project has been a life-saver. It’s given her purpose, and an excuse to get away from people when she gets sick of Tai and Ruby’s overbearing attention. 

And she’s done a great job, too, which is no small thing - she’ll take any self-esteem boost, after the accident. She’s almost done with the repairs! Truthfully, she could already fly the thing if she wanted to. She’s had that dream, often : settling in the pilot seat, racing through the runway of flat grassy land which lays between the hangar and the cliff, taking off above the ocean… 

She misses flying, suddenly, cruelly, like she misses her arm.

Oh, no, terrible train of thoughts. Yang flexes her jaw, and forces herself to take a series of long, full, drawn-out breaths. Dr Polendina taught her that trick, when he was working on her prosthesis, months ago. “When you feel the anxiety coming in, breathe like you have to go underwater for a while,” the old man had said, patiently, when she was struggling through another panic attack. She breathes in and out, slow and steady, slow and steady, until Tai puts down his pen.

“Alright, enough math for today.” He grabs his cup of coffee, takes a swig, grimaces. “Disgusting.”

Yang chuckles despite herself. “You know, maybe it’s time we ban Ruby from the coffee maker. For the sake of this family.”

“But then one of us would have to get up before she does, and let’s be honest, it ain’t happening.”

“What kind of twenty-year-old wakes up before dawn every day to go for a run?” Yang says, dramatically shaking her head in disbelief. “Isn’t she supposed to party hard every night and drag herself out of bed at 1 P.M., hangover and miserable?”

“She doesn’t take after you, that’s for sure.” Tai grins at her, and takes another sip of terrible coffee. “Haven’t seen you at the shop, today. What were you up to?”

The guilt returns, rising to the back of Yang’s throat like oil in water. She glances at her feet. “Yeah, sorry about that. Got caught up at the hangar.”

Tai considers her. For a minute or so, silence stretches between the two of them. The clock ticks, unperturbed. Somewhere, in the house, the dog barks. A car drives by, motor rumbling quietly in the distance.

“Yang,” Tai starts. Yang looks up at his tone, the way he says her name like he’s gearing up for an argument. He smiles, though the way he’s gripping his coffee mug betrays his nerves. “You’re not happy here.”

Yang blinks. “Huh?”

“Here. In Patch. Working at the shop. Living with us. You’re not happy.”

“I’m fine,” she denies, reflexively. A beat. “I’m doing my best.” 

“I know you are. But I’m worried about you. I’ve been giving it some thoughts and I…” Here Taiyang pauses, putting down the cup, letting out a tired sigh. “I believe it would be best if you went away for a while. Got out of Patch and back into the world.”

“O-kay,” Yang says, slowly. Well, that isn’t _at all_ where she expected this conversation to go. “Are you… kicking me out?”

Tai lets out a grunt of laughter at that. “God, no. If I was the kind of man to kick family out, I’d have started with your uncle years ago. No, I have an offer for you. A job offer from General Ironwood, actually.”

Yang’s heart misses a beat. “Is it…?”

“No,” her father cuts in, hurriedly. “He still won’t budge on the pilot thing, I’m afraid.”

Oh. Yang swallows her disappointment. Of course. General Ironwood was quite clear, after the accident: someone who crashes a plane and looses a limb in the process is probably not gonna fly anytime soon. Still, for a second, she hoped…

“But he did ask for a favor,” Tai goes on. He hesitates. 

“I’m listening” Yang says, cautiously. She owes Ironwood a debt, so she’ll help if she can. Though she’s not sure how useful she can be to the war effort anymore. 

“One of his officers in Vale needs some help with taking care of her children. Captain Blake Belladonna, ever heard the name?”

Yang shakes her head, frowning, a little incredulous. “He wants me to _babysit_?”

“Well, it’s more of a bodyguard kind of gig. With a healthy side of babysitting, yes,” Tai explains. “You’d be paid a generous wage. Housed and fed on location. And it’s on the coast, right by the city of Vale, so you’d have plenty of opportunities to visit the town, I’m sure.”

“It’s temporary,” Tai adds when Yang doesn’t say anything.

Yang is torn. How can she say no to the man who saved her life and gave her a new arm? And who knows, maybe if she does well, the General will finally agree to let her back in. Let her fly again. But she thinks of the airship, almost done, of leaving Ruby and Tai and Patch again, of loosing the comfort of her routine, the safety of her childhood home. 

Sensing her hesitation, Taiyang presses on. “This could be your chance at a new beginning. Earn some money of your own, take some time for yourself, figure things out. I think you should say yes.”

“Don’t sound so eager to get rid of me,” Yang says, trying for a lighter tone, and, to her horror, sounding vaguely childish instead. 

Her dad softens instantly. Yang sinks even deeper into the armchair, self conscious. “Of course not, kiddo. I just want what’s best for you, and I don’t think staying here moping about that old airship is doing you any good. You need to get back out there. But if you want to stay, or if you want to come back, you know there’s always a place for you in this house.”

Yang clears her throat. “You’re so corny,” she says. He rolls his eyes, good-naturedly. She sighs. “Alright, tell me more about this job.”

***

Getting to Vale from Patch is easy enough. A ferry makes regular trips between the island and the continent. The only tricky thing about it, really, is to negotiate a lower price for the transport of Yang’s bike, and even that goes without a hitch. For once, Yang is glad that everyone’s heard about her accident, because the lady in charge of ticketing takes one good look at her arm, and gives her an astounding discount, with a wink for good measure. Feels good to be a hometown hero, huh.

She watches the rocky cliffs of Patch get smaller as the ferry sails away. Apprehension gathers in the pit of her stomach - the last time she left her childhood home, it was to become the newest recruit of General Ironwood’s Air Force. 

The memory of that cloudless summer day is etched in her brain, deep as a scar. The feel of the crisp uniform against her skin, the straps of the military backpack digging into her shoulders. She was so excited, so driven, twenty three years old and her whole life ahead of her, standing tall on the ship’s deck as she waved goodbye to her family. Qrow was at her side, smoking, his presence solid and reassuring - he’d promised Tai he would see Yang to Ironwood safely. Her dad and Ruby had waved back from the crowded harbor, two small silhouettes, and though Yang couldn’t really see their faces, she knew they looked at her with pride. She was joining the allied forces, the war against Salem! 

But amid all the joy and excitement, Yang also remembers the dark, unsaid thought in all of their hearts: the knowledge that Summer had gone to war, over ten years ago, just like Yang, and had never come back. 

Three years later, Yang’s plane was shot down by Salem’s soldiers during a reconnaissance mission in Mistral. Her memory of the accident is less clear, thankfully, more like a blur of sensations. The creaking of metal being torn out from her plane, the swoop of her stomach as she plunged down towards the ground. Adrenaline coursing through her veins like fire, her shaking hands on the control panel, and then impact, pain, darkness. When she woke up, she was lying in a military hospital bed, and her left arm stopped at the elbow. And that was the end of Yang’s short-lived career as a military pilot.

Nowadays, Mistral is completely occupied by Salem’s forces, the resistance crushed, bloodily so, hundreds of people fleeing to Vale and Atlas. Taiyang mentioned that the kids Captain Belladonna adopted two years ago were Mistral orphans she personally rescued. He also told Yang that the Captain was part of the last attempt to get refugees out before Ironwood withdrew the totality of his troops from Mistral - a move some have called a grave mistake, others a strategic necessity.

Yang sighs. There’s no point in dredging out the past, no point in obsessing over the long, drawn-out war Salem is waging against the free world. Let Ironwood and his people worry about invasion and politics and strategy ; she has a new job to do, and damn it, she will do it well, because three children are counting on her. Yang straightens her back, inhaling the rich smell of the ocean. The reality hits her suddenly. _Children. Counting on her._

“Fuck,” Yang mutters, staring at the white froth the ferry leaves in its wake. “What did I get myself into?”

It’s not that she doesn’t know how to handle children. After all, she’s helped her dad take care of Ruby growing up. Diapers, story time, tantrums, math homework: she’s done it all. And not to brag, but she’s good with kids. 

So why is she feeling so damn nervous about the whole thing? Despite her father’s words of advice, she can’t help it ; a part of her misses the lonely hangar already, the quiet company of the aircraft, just her, a power drill, and the radio. A part of her is scared of the unknown.

“A captain with three children. What’s so fearsome about that?” Yang tries to reason with herself. Decidedly, she turns her back on the tiny shape of Patch, leaning against the railing. Since she was a little girl, she’s always longed for adventures. Well, this is an adventure, albeit not quite what she had in mind, but, hey. It’s all in the attitude, right?

Yang crosses her arms. “Get it together, Xiao Long,” she tells herself, sternly. This family needs her help. She will not disappoint. “I’ll be the best bodyguard slash babysitter Captain Belladonna could have ever hoped for!”

Feeling suddenly way more confident about the whole thing, Yang grins. “Not only that, I’ll be an excellent role-model.”

“Nut job,” barks the old man beside her who’s been watching her talk to herself for the past five minutes. Yang promptly flips him off, and lights herself a well-deserved cigarette.

***

The Belladonna manor looms on the coastline, just South of Vale, a massive building of grey stone behind the tallest iron fence Yang has ever seen. Large windows and a couple of delicate balconies overcome with ivy make up the front facade. As she rides her bike on the road winding down the coast from Vale, Yang catches a glimpse of the back of the house as well: stairs carved into the cliff link the backyard to the beach, and to a private little dock where a sailboat and a small rowboat are anchored.

Dad didn’t lie, Yang thinks, as she turns off her bike in front of the gated entrance. Belladonna is _loaded_. She whistles, tilting her aviators down her nose to get a better view. She can totally see how some people - not her, mind you - might feel a tad intimidated by the place. 

Yang opens the heavy iron gate, pushing her bike inside before closing it back behind her. The gravel creaks under the dusty wheels, under her worn-out boots. When she makes it to the porch, Yang has worked up a sweat from the physical effort and the hot sun of midsummer. She parks the bike in front of the few steps of stairs leading up to the front door, and grabs her meagre possessions. With a lumpy duffel bag in one hand, a guitar case slung over her shoulder, and quite a strong sense that she doesn’t fit here at all, Yang rings the bell.

The door opens immediately, revealing a young woman in an immaculate uniform, with light brown skin, a dusting of freckles across her cheeks, and a tight ponytail. 

“Captain Belladonna, so nice to finally meet you!” Yang says, smiling her most charming smile, and extending an eager hand. 

The woman looks at her hand with a blank face, then looks up. “The Captain is on a video conference in her study. You are?”

Oh. Okay. Great. Yang lets her hand fall down her side, awkwardly. “Yang Xiao Long. I’m here for the kids?”

The woman blinks. She looks at Yang again. “Right. The nanny.”

“Huh, I didn’t know that was the official job title….”

“Please wait here. I’ll go fetch the Captain for you.”

Without another word - and, _very_ obviously, without inviting her in - the woman turns around and disappears inside. “Warm welcome,” Yang says pointedly to the door left ajar. 

Well, then. Might as well make herself comfortable. She sits on the stairs, stretching her legs after the long trip, lights a cigarette. The sun is high in the sky, bathing the front yard in bright light. It’s quiet out here, away from the bustling life of Vale, though Yang can see the shape of the city a dozen or so miles north of the manor. The sound of the ocean reaches her ears, making her feel at home, despite the unfamiliarity of her surroundings.

Yang lets out a puff of smoke, looking down critically at her outfit. The woman who greeted her so rudely was sporting a perfectly tailored uniform, and next to her, Yang looks pretty ragged in her faded overalls and old bomber jacket. Her blond hair is left free, the way she prefers it, rolling in somewhat tangled waves past her shoulders. She idly wonders if Captain Belladonna is the sort to be put off by a less-than professional appearance. 

Minutes pass. Yang flicks the butt of her cigarette down on the gravel. She looks at her watch, fidgets with the strap of her guitar case. Pulls another cigarette from her pack, but the heat has left her too thirsty to smoke, so instead of lighting it she sticks it behind one ear. The door is still open behind her, the interior of the building looking invitingly cool and dark compared to the glaring sun.

“Oh, fuck it.” Standing up resolutely, Yang gathers her stuff, and walks past the door into the manor. The hall that greets her is a huge circular room, large enough to fit her beloved airship. Doors lead into side rooms all around, except right in front of her, where stands an imposing staircase of white marble. Yang whistles under her breath, studying the place. 

The style is pristine, tasteful, if a bit sparse. Along the walls, some artworks are displayed - as well as, incongruously, a child’s drawing. A round colorful rug sits in the center of the hall, adding some much needed softness to the decor. Yang clears her throat, expecting somebody to come out of one of the many closed doors, maybe the rude ponytail girl. Nothing happens.

Where is everyone, she wonders, pausing by the bottom of the stairs to listen. The house is too quiet. She’d expected more noise, more… well, more life. She walks up to a door at random, curiosity trumping caution. Putting her ear to the wood, she listens carefully. Nothing. She turns the handle - the door isn’t locked. It opens onto a vast room with wooden floors and intricate gilded panels adorning the walls. A series of high, oval-shaped windows overlook part of the garden, letting in the sunlight. Yang takes it all in, frowning in confusion, until it dawns on her: this is a ballroom. A beautiful, traditional ballroom, in a god-honest manor.

Well, she’ll be damned. “Who even uses a ballroom these days?”

She realizes she’s spoken out loud when a voice sounds out from behind her. 

“You’d be surprised. In matters of diplomacy and international affairs, one successful ball can be more important than thousands of soldiers.” 

Yang spins around. In the center of the hall, Captain Blake Belladonna is facing her - and this time it is undoubtedly her, the rank made obvious by the plethora of medals on her chest, and the ceremonial sword hanging at her hip.

She’s a woman in her late twenties, standing a good head shorter than Yang, lithe, slender. But there is strength in her posture, in her body, in the way she stares at Yang with calm, serious golden eyes. Her wavy dark hair is tied in a low ponytail, and she’s dressed in the blue and white uniform of the Navy - a double-breasted jacket on a white shirt, slacks, boots. A little unexpectedly, she’s also wearing the fancy tricorn favored by Navy officers, and her hands are gloved in white. Yang remembers Rude Ponytail Girl mentioning something about a video conference - which must be why the woman in front of her is donned in full regalia. 

“Apologies, Captain,” Yang says, with a lopsided grin. “I didn’t mean to snoop around.”

Blake Belladonna doesn’t smile, nor does she answer. Finding her lack of reaction more than a little unnerving, Yang closes the door leading to the ballroom, sheepishly, and walks up to her.

“I’m Yang. Yang Xiao Long?”

“Ms Xiao Long. Pleasure to meet you.”

The Captain cocks her head, her lips twitch, and, inexplicably, one of her hands reaches up towards the side of Yang’s face, gloved fingers brushing against Yang’s hair. Yang freezes. Her eyes widen. For one interminable, unconceivable moment, she’s stunned, pinned in place like a butterfly under glass by the light, barely-there touch of Blake’s glove. 

And then Blake’s hand retreats, and in front of Yang’s face she holds, between two fingers, the cigarette she just took from behind Yang’s ear. Carefully, she snaps it in half, before letting the pieces fall down on the rug, looking at Yang evenly.

“Please don’t smoke in front of the children.”


	2. I have confidence in me

Yang Xiao Long is no stranger to intimidating figures of authority. She trained under the tutelage of Remnant’s most formidable flight instructor, Maria Calavera, who, though pint-sized, possesses the ferocity and bite of a much bigger animal. And she worked with General Ironwood for several years. 

So, when confronted with Blake Belladonna, and despite an initial moment of weakness she chalks up to sheer surprise, Yang quickly recovers. No way is she going to let herself be intimidated by a woman who’s barely older than her. The Captain may be her employer, but she can’t pull rank on a civilian. 

Yang toes the remains of her crushed cigarette, casually. “Thanks for the warning, Captain, I’ll be sure to keep them out of sight. But do me a favor, don’t do that again. They cost a fortune, and I’d hate to have to ask you for a raise so soon.” 

Blake quirks a surprised eyebrow, lets out a quiet hum of acknowledgment, which isn’t a real answer, but Yang gets the feeling it’s probably all she’s going to get. There’s a brief silence, as Blake’s eyes trail down to the worn duffel bag at Yang’s feet. “Do you need help getting the rest of your luggage inside, Ms Xiao Long?”

“Nope, all I brought is right here!”

Blake blinks, unable to hide her perplexity. “Well, I can certainly provide anything else you’ll be needing.” She glances again at Yang’s outfit - the jacket, well used, with patched-up elbows, the clean, simple overalls, the leather boots, dusty from the road. “In fact, we have some surplus uniforms in the house, why don’t I show you…”

“No, that’s okay,” Yang interrupts, something a bit frantic in her tone.

“I’m sorry, I know you were in the Air force, and those are Navy uniforms, but I can assure you…”

Yang shakes her head. “I’m not wearing a uniform, Captain. There’s nothing wrong with my clothes.” 

Silence again. Blake frowns, obviously displeased with such resistance. _Well, this is going great_ , Yang thinks, but she doesn’t budge. Breathes in, slow and steady, slow and steady, just like Dr Polendina taught her. The idea of putting on a uniform when she’s no longer allowed to fly, to fight, has turned her stomach sour, made her taste bitterness on the back of her tongue. So she holds firm.

“Understood,” Blake says, eventually, with forced politeness. “Well, then, let’s review your duties here.” She proceeds to tell Yang about the children’s daily schedule: private lessons with tutors in the morning, free time in the afternoon after they’ve done their homework, sometimes sport or field trips. 

“They don’t go to school?” Yang asks, curious.

“We live too far from the city. Besides, I don’t want to risk it.”

“You don’t want to risk… school?” 

Blake’s jaw clenches. Her gloved hands shake, ever so slightly, and she clasps them behind her back, in an attempt to hide it, but it doesn’t fool Yang. Blake is _stressed out_ about this, wrung as tight as a screw on Yang’s newly repaired airship. She files it away for later. “Sorry, go on.”

“You’re here to make sure the children are safe, Ms Xiao Long. To that end, you’ll have access to the house security system - Ilia can show you how everything works.” 

“Ilia?”

“My personal aide. I believe you two have met.” Rude Ponytail Girl. Got it. “We have security protocols in place for any emergency that may arise. I expect you to familiarize yourself with them as soon as possible.”

Yang can’t help it. She lets out a short, amused huff of laughter. “That’s a lot of precautions, Captain. You expecting an attack or something?”

That jaw clench, again. The coiled tension in Blake’s body is impossible to miss as she replies, a bit snappish. “You _are_ aware that we’re at war, correct?”

“I mean, sure, but this is Vale…” Everyone knows Salem wouldn’t dare invade Vale, the way she’s done Vacuo and Mistral, not while Ozpin is still head of the kingdom. If anything, her next target is definitely Atlas and Ironwood’s command center. 

“Nowhere is safe. I am an officer, which means I have a target painted on my back, and I have accepted the danger of my situation. But I won’t let my children bear this burden.” Blake’s voice has grown hard like steel - she sounds every bit the officer she is, used to giving orders. And yet, running underneath the metal, Yang detects a small but strong current of _fear_. 

It doesn’t make sense. Surely someone like Blake Belladonna, a Captain of the Navy, an accomplished strategist and skilled fighter, can protect herself and her family. Yang tries to recall what her father told her about Blake, when they talked in his office. Wealthy parents from Menagerie, a brilliant career in the military, beloved and respected by her troops… nothing but good stuff except for one unfortunate incident, years ago, when her mentor - or partner, Tai wasn’t sure - defected to the other side. 

Yang looks at the guarded woman in front of her, the perfect officer in her pristine uniform, straight-backed and confident, with her stubborn mouth and inscrutable golden eyes, and finds herself wanting to know the woman beneath the surface, the one whose emotions are seeping through the cracks of a carefully crafted mask.

“I’ll keep them safe, I promise,” Yang says, slowly, seriously. ”Anything else?”

Blake’s face relaxes, just a bit. “I’m very busy, and I unfortunately cannot spend as much time with my children as I’d like. I didn’t hire you just as a bodyguard, I need someone who will care for them.”

She pauses, and then she adds, softer, “They have not had an easy life. I don’t only want them safe, Ms Xiao Long… I want them to be as happy as possible in a world like ours.”

Something about Blake’s words, about Blake’s voice, strikes a chord inside Yang’s heart. She nods. “Of course. So when do I get to meet them?”

“Right now.”

At this point, since she still hasn’t seen or heard anything that would hint at the presence of a child, let alone three, Yang is prepared for a variety of scenarios. Maybe the kids are very good at hide-and-seek, and they’re waiting to pop out from behind one of the tapestries hung on the walls. Maybe Blake will peel aside the colorful rug, revealing a trap door, or maybe the kids will slide down from the second floor on the beautiful marble banister. Maybe Rude Ponytail Girl was really three children in the Navy version of a trench coat. 

What she doesn’t expect, though, is for Blake to reach inside the pocket of her uniform jacket and produce a long, narrow tube of copper, with a small sphere on one end, the two elements linked together with a flat piece of ornate silver. It’s a boatswain’s call, Yang realizes after a moment of confusion, the kind of whistles used on ships to direct the crew when the sea is too loud for human voice. 

Blake, holding the big whistle between two fingers with the ease of someone who’s been using such an instrument for the better part of a decade, blows into the mouth of the tube, three short, high tones, ringing sharply into the silent manor. At first, nothing happens. Yang waits, awkwardly, wondering what the hell is going on, until she hears what sounds like a stampede of elephants on the floor above them. 

Doors slammed, hurried footsteps, peels of laughter. Three children come running down the stairs, skidding to a halt at Blake’s side, and eyeing Yang with a blatant air of suspicion. They all look alike, skin a shade darker than Blake’s olive complexion, hair dark and curly, deep brown eyes. The smallest one, a little girl who can’t be older than five, throws her arms around Blake’s left leg, hiding her face against Blake’s hip. Blake cups the back of her head, gently, while she smiles at the other two children who stand warily beside their little sister. Yang takes it in, noticing the abrupt shift in Blake’s attitude, how she seems to have lost some of the steel in her posture.

“Hey, guys,” Blake says, and even her voice has changed, the two words softer than any she’s said to Yang so far. “There’s someone I want you to meet. This is Ms Xiao Long, she will be taking care of you for a while.” She points to each of them, from tallest to smallest. “This is Louisa, Kurt and Marta. My children.” 

Yang waves, smiling wide. “Hi, kids. Nice to meet y’all. I’m Yang.”

They stay quiet, staring at her. Louisa, the eldest, about ten years old, crosses her arms against her chest with a decidedly mutinous expression. Marta tightens her hold on Blake’s leg. _Not too pleased to meet me, it looks like_ , Yang muses. This may be harder than she thought. 

Blake clears her throat, features turning a tad sterner. “You’re to follow Ms Xiao Long’s instructions, okay? She’s here to make sure you are safe.” The children nod, still silent. 

Blake addresses Yang, showing her once again the boatswain’s call. “It’s a big house, and I don’t like relying on phones since they are so easily hacked, so I’ve been using this when I need them to come quickly. I’m thinking I’ll use a different signal for you, maybe something like…” She holds the whistle to her mouth and inhales - and Yang, before she can think it through, grabs Blake’s wrist to stop her. Blake stills, mouth open, breath caught in her lungs. Her eyes lock onto Yang’s, filled with disbelief. Blake’s wrist feels small and delicate between Yang’s fingers - it reminds her, absurdly, of a baby bird she’d rescued, one summer day a long time ago ; it had fallen from its nest, and Yang had held the tiny, fragile creature in one hand. The white cotton of Blake’s glove sits soft against Yang’s palm.

Yang removes her hand from Blake’s wrist faster than she would from a heated stove. She flexes her fingers, once, then stuffs both hands in her pockets. “I’m sorry, but that ain’t gonna work for me,” she says, in the stunned silence. Her voice sounds firm, which fills her with inexplicable pride. 

“It’s a very efficient way to communicate…”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not a dog, nor part of your crew, so no whistle for me.” A beat, and she adds, in a mildly more respectful tone, “… Captain.” 

Blake glares, eyes narrowed in obvious annoyance. “Tell me, Ms Xiao Long, were you that difficult when you served in the Air Force?”

“Oh no, Captain,” Yang says, cheerful. “I was _much more_ difficult than that.”

The little boy, Kurt, giggles at her answer, and immediately Blake softens, her frustration melting away at the sound. She puts away the whistle, letting out a tired sigh. “Very well, if this is your wish. In that case, please keep your phone on your person at all times.” 

“Captain Belladonna?” someone calls, from one side of the hall. 

They all turn to stare at Ilia, who is standing stiffly by an open door. Behind the woman, Yang discerns a large desk, tall bookshelves, a computer. Must be Belladonna’s office. 

“Sorry to interrupt, but there’s a call for you on line two.” 

“Who is it from?”

“Weiss Schnee.” 

_Schnee?_ Yang thinks to herself, taken aback. _Winter’s sister?_

“Right.” Blake turns to the kids. “I have to talk to Auntie Weiss. In the meantime, why don’t you show Miss Xiao Long around the house?” 

She smiles at the three of them one last time and, without sparing Yang another word, follows Ilia inside her office. Leaving Yang alone with the children at last.

***

Yang lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding - meeting Captain Blake Belladonna was a lot more nerve-wracking than she expected, honestly - and considers the three kids in front of her. They alternate between looking longingly at the closed door to Blake’s office, and glancing at Yang with something that resembles resentment. 

_They really don’t want me here_ , Yang realizes. Time to turn on the Xiao Long charm, then.

“Okay, how about we get to know each other, huh? But first, you gotta do something for me.” She pauses, winks. “None of that _Ms Xiao Long_ business, alright? Please call me Yang.” 

She offers a hand to Louisa, and the girl, with a glare not unlike her adoptive mother, shakes it. “I’m Louisa,” she says. She lets go of Yang’s hand, straightens her shoulders, chin high and stubborn. “And I don’t need a babysitter.” The whole effect is a bit ruined by a missing front tooth.

Yang nods, seriously, biting her tongue to hide a smile. “Got it. How about a bodyguard? You think you might need that?”

Kurt shakes his head, curls of dark hair flopping in front of his eyes. “Nah,” he says. “Plus, Auntie Weiss says you’re not even a real soldier anymore. How can you protect us, then?”

 _Yeah, that sounds like something a Schnee would say._ With a flourish, Yang sheds her bomber jacket, and flexes her bare arms, grinning. “With these guns, my friend! ”

Louisa scoffs, but Kurt looks a little impressed by her bravado. Marta, who’s been silent so far, points at Yang’s metal arm with her tiny hand. “Does it hurt?” she blurts out, wide eyed, with no trace of the shyness she displayed when she was hiding herself against Blake’s leg.

“You can’t ask her that, Marta, it’s rude!” Louisa whispers, scolding, but Yang laughs.

“Oh, it’s okay! Here, look.”

She drops to one knee in front of Marta, resting the metal elbow on top of her bent knee, extending the prosthetic limb towards the curious little girl. “You know, it _did_ hurt a lot at first, but not anymore. General Ironwood took good care of it. You know him?” 

“He works with Blake,” Marta answers, seriously, big brown eyes glancing between Yang’s face and the offered arm. 

“Well, he’s the one who gave me this arm, and he’s the one who sent me to you guys.”

Kurt moves closer, intrigued by Yang’s arm as well. Louisa stays a few feet behind, still frowning. 

“You can touch it, if you want,” Yang says, softly. Marta bites her lip, hesitates, then boldly slaps her little palm against Yang’s metal hand.

“It’s cold!” she says, with a surprised little shriek. She looks up at Yang’s face again, in wonder. God, she’s a cute kid. Yang laughs again, utterly charmed.

“You’re right, it _is_ cold! Can I tell you a secret, Marta?” She gets an eager nod in response, and leans closer to the little girl, whispering, “Because my hand is so cold, I can hold an ice cream cone for as long as I want, and it never melts. Pretty sweet, right?”

“Wow,” Marta says, eyes alight with reverence at the reveal of Yang’s superpower. 

“Can I touch your hand too?” Kurt asks.

Yang closes her hand in a fist, turns it towards him, knuckles first. “Bump it, buddy!”

So he does, looking slightly awed. “Cool,” he mutters to himself. His eyes drift to the guitar case lying on the floor next to Yang’s duffel bag. “What is that?”

“That’s my guitar. Maybe I’ll play for you one of these days, would you like that? You guys like music?”

Yang directs that last question at Louisa, but the girl’s frown grows deeper. In fact, the three of them tense, some of their earlier reluctance coming back.

“No,” Louisa says, curtly, dark eyes fixed on Yang’s guitar case with transparent hostility. Marta and Kurt etch away from Yang, closer to their older sister, and just like that, Yang’s lost them. They’re a wall, the three of them, silent and sullen and resentful - which is quite puzzling to Yang, and frustrating, too. She was just starting to get through to the youngest two, and she can’t figure out what ruined the moment. 

Knowing better than to force an explanation out of them, Yang swiftly shifts gears. “Your Mom said you’d give me a tour. Why don’t we start with where I’m sleeping? I’d love to put my stuff down.”

Kurt and Louisa exchange a glance. Louisa nods to her brother, minutely, before they all turn around. Yang pretends she doesn’t notice any of it, hauling her duffel bag up, shouldering the guitar case. They lead her up the stairs and onto the wide hallway connecting the right half of the upper floor. Plush carpet, mirrors, paintings. The decor is on par with what Yang has seen of the house so far: fancy, but tasteful. 

The room set aside for her is much simpler in appearance, to Yang’s relief. The bed looks cozy, and the two large windows let through a considerable amount of sunlight for the late afternoon. There’s a small, empty desk of light wood with a chair, an old-fashioned armoire to the left of the bed. Kurt points to the door on the right side. “Bathroom,” he says, laconic. 

“I’ll go check if there’s a towel for you,” Louisa mumbles, disappearing inside the bathroom.

Yang leans the guitar case against the desk, drops the bag at the foot of the bed. Marta is hovering by the door, still, little arms crossed behind her back, teeth worrying her lower lip. Kurt, not as shy, is inspecting the bed, patting the soft duvet, fluffing out the pillows. They’re acting weird, but Yang decides to ignore it from now. She’s not overly worried: whatever this is about, she’s confident in her abilities to get them to open up sooner or later.

Instead, she walks up to one of the windows, and smiles. It overlooks the garden and, past the cliff, the ocean. It’s a wonderful view. The lush green of grass, sprinkled with colorful flowers, deepened by the shades of neatly trimmed pine trees, melts into the blue-green of the water. And above it all, the infinite sky, without a cloud in sight. Yang almost wishes she could paint, to capture this perfect picture of a perfect summer afternoon by the ocean. 

A knock at the door shakes her out of her contemplation. It’s Rude Ponytail Girl - okay, fine, enough with the pettiness, she has a name. Ilia nods at Yang. “I see you’ve settled in.” Then she smiles at the children, including Louisa who’s come back without a word from her bathroom excursion. “I come bearing good news. Blake says you’re allowed to watch some TV before dinner.” 

Grinning like they’ve won the lottery, the three of them dart out of the room without sparing Yang another glance, much in the same way Captain Belladonna left earlier. Must be a family tradition.

***

“They sure love their TV,” Yang comments, drily, when the sound of tiny footsteps stomping down the stairs has disappeared. 

Ilia shrugs. “They’re kids.” She glances at Yang’s bag near the bed, at the guitar case. “I wouldn’t bother unpacking, if I were you.”

Now, Yang considers herself to be a generally pleasant person, but she’s been known to have something of a temper, occasionally. And that temper has been slow-burning ever since she hopped off her motorbike and entered the Belladonna residence, pushing her closer and closer to frustration as steadily as her plane would take her towards the sun. She’s kept herself in check through the rude welcome, the awful meeting with Captain Belladonna, the cold-then-hot-then-cold-again game with the kids. Ilia’s remark is the igniting match. 

“What’s your problem with me, exactly?” Yang says between gritted teeth, in a tone not unlike the hiss of an angry kettle. 

To her credit, Ilia appears unbothered. “Did you know that you’re the third nanny Blake’s hired in less than two weeks?” Without giving her time to answer, Ilia goes on. “In fact, the last one barely lasted two days here. So forgive me for thinking you won’t last long either. Nobody does.” 

“I don’t understand. Your Captain definitely acts like a woman who’s swallowed a broomstick and has never heard of _relaxing_ as a concept, but she hardly seems the type to fire people willy-nilly. ”

Ilia’s eyes narrow. She takes a step forward, fists clenched, looking for a second as if she intends to start a fight with Yang, despite the fact that she’s significantly smaller than her, and quite frankly nowhere near as fit. “Don’t talk about Blake that way. You don’t know anything about her, you have _no right_ …”

Yang, her own anger forgotten, is taken aback, not by Ilia’s aggressiveness per se, but by the immense loyalty she senses in her. She wonders how long Ilia has been working for Captain Belladonna, and what kind of relationship they have that would allow for such an intense reaction. Romantic liaisons are not necessarily discouraged in the army, but an officer involved with a subaltern would surely be frowned upon. And Belladonna doesn’t strike Yang as someone who would dismiss these kinds of unsaid rules. 

“Okay, then, if not the Captain, what’s wrong? The kids?” Yang says, jokingly, trying to defuse the tension. Ilia looks away, and Yang shakes her head, incredulous. “Wait, what? I wasn’t serious…”

“Check your bed,” Ilia says suddenly, cutting her off. “Look under the blanket, under the pillows.”

“Huh?”

“Just do it.”

Quieting her temper once more, Yang peels away the duvet covering her bed, dramatically revealing clean white sheets. “What are you talking about Ilia? There’s noth- _son of a bitch!_ ” She lets the pillow she just lifted off the bed fall down on the floor, staring at the long, pale pink worm hidden underneath. The worm wriggles helplessly, grotesque and slightly unnerving at the same time.

“Kurt, you little demon,” Yang grumbles, picking the poor animal and dropping it outside the window. 

“Did you let one of them inside the bathroom?”

_I’ll go check if there’s a towel for you._

Yang, muttering a litany of curses under her breath, stalks into the bathroom, takes one suspicious look at the toiletries set on the small shelf above the sink, and unceremoniously throws all of them into the trash can.

“Clever, I’ll give them that,” she tells Ilia, who is still standing by the door, watching with interest as Yang thoroughly searches her bedroom for any other similar surprises. 

“Oh, they're a clever bunch. And they know Blake won’t ever be _really_ angry at them for harmless pranks like that, though she has given them a serious talking-to after the last nanny left so fast.”

“Why are they so against having a babysitter?”

Ilia sighs. For the first time since Yang’s met her, her face softens, and she leans against the door frame, arms crossed against her Navy uniform. “I’m not sure, but as you can imagine, they’ve been through a lot. They lost their parents in Mantle, about five years ago. Marta was an infant still, but Louisa and Kurt remember. They’ve lived with Blake ever since, and they love her. She’s the only one who really get through to them, I think. They tolerate me, and a few of Blake’s friends well enough, but they aren’t keen on most adults.”

A sharp twinge pierces Yang’s heart, leaving in its wake a familiar ache, dulled by time but still there, always. Yang is transported ten years ago, on a bleary winter day, in Patch. The day they got the news that Summer, Ruby and Yang’s mother, would never come back from the war. She knows, intimately so, what it’s like to loose a parent to senseless violence, she’s felt the grief in her bones, has seen it in Ruby’s sad, confused eyes, in their father’s quiet tears. 

She thinks back on the way Marta hid herself against Blake’s leg, on Kurt’s awe when they bumped fists, on Louisa’s determined face when she told Yang she didn’t need a babysitter. And, inexorably, the realization dawns on her: she may have accepted this job because of Ironwood, because of her father, but now, something’s changed. Now, she’s invested.

So she turns towards Ilia, solid and confident and _purposeful_ , and grins.

“Well, Ilia, you don’t know this about me, but I am a sucker for a challenge, and they’re not going to get rid of me so easily. I’m here because General Ironwood asked me to come, as a favor, and I’ll be damned if I let three little kids scare me away, clever as they might be. I promised Captain Belladonna I’d keep them safe, so that’s exactly what I’ll do. Speaking of, could you show me the rest of the house, and the security system?”

The Belladonna manor, Yang soon finds out, is truly huge, with two floors and a basement. As Ilia guides her through the whole place with the pace of a drill instructor, Yang does her best to memorize the layout. She likes the kitchen, big and modern and spotless, and the cozy little living room, where the children are currently glued to the screen of a massive television, watching with rapt attention the cartoon adaptation of a popular fairytale. There’s also a dining room, too formal for Yang’s taste with its long wooden table and a crystal chandelier which looks heavy enough to kill a man, were it to crash. The door to Belladonna’s office is closed, so Ilia steers her, at long last, to the security center. 

It’s a small, square room, outfitted with screens showing various camera feeds, and a sleek computer coordinating the alarm system. Ilia puts an impressive stack of documents, kept in a folder ominously titled “ _Procedures Manual_ ”, inside Yang’s hands and, while Yang peruses through the ridiculous volume of information, she gets to the task of connecting Yang’s phone to the security network. 

“Here you go,” Ilia says, about twenty minutes later, handing the phone back. By then, Yang’s developed what is likely to be a hell of a migraine, and she’s only made it about a fifth through the documents. “You’re all set. Now if anything happens, you’ll be alerted immediately. You, Blake, and me are the only people who have access to the system.”

“Thanks.” Yang says, putting down the folder of very boring instructions with relief, and pocketing her phone. As the two of them exit the security room, she looks over at Ilia, curious. ”So, obviously this is the Captain’s house, and I’m staying on the premises as well, but what about you, Ilia? Do you live here?”

Ilia shakes her head. “No, I live in Vale. I just work here when Blake needs me around. In fact,” she checks her watch, “it’s time for me to go home, I believe.”

She hesitates, then extends a hand towards Yang. Aww, maybe Ponytail Girl isn’t so rude after all. Yang shakes it, raising an eyebrow. “You seem alright, Xiao Long,” Ilia admits, a little gruff, but sincere. “I hope you’ll make it work with the children.”

“Thanks, Ponytail. ‘Preciate it”

“If you ever call me that again, I’ll knock your teeth out.”

Yang lets out a delighted laugh. The corner of Ilia’s mouth curves slightly upward before she abruptly turns away and makes her way towards Captain Belladonna’s office.

***

Dinner is served less than an hour after Ilia’s departure, the whole family, and Yang, gathered in the grandiose dining room. Yang eyes the chandelier warily while Blake, who’s changed out of her uniform and into a more casual outfit, sets food down on the table - take-out from a restaurant in Vale. 

“As you can imagine, I don’t have much time to cook,” Blake says, defensively, like she’s daring Yang to comment on the meal. 

Yang waves the concern away. “My dad used to order take-out all the time when we were kids. This looks delicious.”

Louisa, Kurt and Marta sit silently through the whole dinner, stealing glances at Yang and grinning at each other when they think Yang isn’t paying attention. Probably thinking about their pranks waiting for Yang in her bedroom. Blake, for her part, is also mostly quiet, lost in thoughts, and if she notices the children’s strange behavior, she doesn’t bring it up. 

So everyone is quite startled when, once the plates emptied and the dessert finished, Yang taps her spoon against her glass. 

“I’d like to say a few words.”

“If you must,” Blake replies, distracted.

“I wanted to thank all of you for a wonderful welcome, but especially you three, Louisa, Kurt and Marta.” The children freeze when they hear their names, like deers in headlights. “The gifts you left for me upstairs really made me feel at home. It was so kind of you.”

Yang smiles. Louisa blinks, staring at her like she grew a second head. Kurt squirms in his chair. Marta’s lower lip wobbles. 

“What are you talking about, Ms Xiao Long?” Blake asks, confused. 

“Oh, it’s a secret between the kids and me,” Yang says, dismissively. She doesn’t miss Louisa’s sigh of relief, nor Kurt’s guilty glance to his adoptive mother. 

Blake looks between the four of them, frowning, but whatever she thinks is happening, she doesn’t have time to investigate any further before her phone rings, breaking the tense silence. She excuses herself, dashing for her office.

“Why don’t you all get ready for bed and I’ll clean up,” Yang offers when Blake’s gone. The children nod, mumble a quiet _thank you_ , and leave the dining room without being told twice.

Yang sits at the table for another minute, smiling to herself. She’s pretty sure she won’t find another bug in her bed any time soon.


	3. A few of my favorite things

Yang wakes up all at once, her heart beating too fast inside her chest, pulse going wild at her throat. It takes her a dozen panicked seconds to remember where she is. Her brain, sleep-hazy and filled with blurry scenes from the nightmare that woke her up, has trouble recognizing the unfamiliar room.

Breathe in, breathe out, deeply, steadily. Yang’s heart slows down, and she sighs, sitting up in the bed. She hasn’t had a nightmare about the plane accident in over a month. The sudden change of environment must have triggered it, but she still feels a bit of a failure. 

Well, no amount of self-pity is going to help, so Yang, blinking away the last dregs of sleep from her eyes, gets out of bed. If she’s awake, might as well start her day, she tells herself as she pushes open the curtains. The sun, barely risen, fills her bedroom with pale golden light. It’s a beautiful summer morning - no clouds above the tranquil ocean, everything quiet but for the cries of seagulls circling the beach.

Yang looks down at the garden below, wishing for a brief instant that she were back in Patch, gearing up for another day spent with the airship for sole companion - something easy to fix, something to make sure her hands and her mind stay busy through the day…. Yang shakes her head, scolding herself. Enough. She has a purpose here too, a job to do, and she intends to do it well. 

She dutifully does the series of stretches Dr. Polendina taught her, before hoping in for a quick shower. The house is quiet, dark still, so she makes her way downstairs as silently as she can. The children will probably wake up soon, and they’ll need breakfast. 

She expects to be the first person in the kitchen, but she finds Captain Belladonna, leaning against the breakfast counter, already dressed in sensible slacks and a truly conservative grey cardigan on top of a cream cotton shirt. The outfit should make her look old-fashioned, ridiculous even, but instead it lends her a certain softness that her uniform, the day before, did not. She doesn’t look up when Yang comes in, focused on the folder opened in her hands, and Yang’s eyes skim over her, noting the purple skin under her eyes, the curls of black hair loosened from the otherwise neat bun, the stiffness of her shoulders. There’s an empty cup of coffee set on the counter. Did Blake even sleep?

“Good morning,” Yang says. Blake starts, as if just now noticing her presence. She closes the folder abruptly, checks her watch, sighs. 

“Ms Xiao Long, good morning. Please help yourself to anything you’d like. I’ll be in my office…”

“Have you had any breakfast?” Yang interrupts her.

“… I’m sorry?”

“Breakfast. I’m sure you’ve heard of it - most important meal of the day? Anyway, doesn’t look like you’ve had anything to eat yet, but I’m about to make pancakes for the kids, you should have some,” Yang says, moving with ease in the kitchen, opening cabinets to find bowl and spatula and measuring cups, grabbing eggs and milk and butter from the fridge. “Where do you keep the flour?”

Wordlessly, Blake points to the middle shelf of the pantry. 

“Thanks, Captain. Hey, is that pot of coffee still hot? I could use some right now and, no offense, you look like you need a refill.” 

Without waiting for an answer, Yang fishes her phone out of her pocket, taps on the radio station, and turns the volume up. Twangy guitar and a deep female voice soon fills the kitchen. 

Yang cracks eggs, smiling, humming to the tune. “Can’t cook without music,” she comments, measuring milk and sugar expertly. “It’s the way my mom taught me. What about you? Your parents cook at all?”

She risks a glance at Blake, and the look on her face almost makes her laugh out loud: brow alarmingly furrowed, mouth twisted in the grimace of someone trying to stay polite in the face of an unexpected interruption. Clearly Yang’s disrupting some kind of silent morning routine, but she doesn’t feel too bad about it - she’s fairly certain this house could use some disruption. It’s the clear unease in Blake’s eyes that makes Yang relent - she turns down the volume until it’s almost inaudible, a vague background sound, like music played from a distant room. 

“My father cooks,” Blake says, after a small silence. She puts down two cups of coffee on the counter - her own, refilled, and one for Yang, who’s grateful for the caffeine fix - and clears her throat. “I, hmm, appreciate all of this, but…”

Before she can finish her sentence, Marta, Kurt and Louisa rush into the kitchen, energetic and lively the way only children can be so early in the morning, still in their pajamas, Marta’s hand fastened to her big sister’s.

Blake’s face lightens. “Hey, you three! You’re up early!” She drops a kiss on top of Louisa’s slightly messy hair, bends down to kiss Kurt’s forehead as well, and hoists Marta in her arms. It strikes Yang again, how different the Captain acts with her kids, how softer she sounds when she talks to them. 

“Are you staying for breakfast?” Marta asks, her little voice filled with hope.

Blake sighs. “No, honey, I’m sorry. I have too much work this morning. But Ms Xiao Long is making you pancakes, isn’t that nice?”

Marta doesn’t say anything, face buried into Blake’s neck, both hands scrunched tight into Blake’s cardigan. Blake holds the little girl, and as she does, her eyes flicker to meet Yang’s, before she avoids her gaze.

Sensing the tension, Yang signals to Kurt and Louisa to come nearer. “You two wanna help me out?” Cautiously, they approach, eyeing Yang with some hesitation. Clearly her little speech at dinner last night is still present in their minds. Good. 

“I’ve never made pancakes,” Kurt says, rising to the tip of his toes to take a look inside the mixing bowl.

Shaking her head, Yang beckons him closer. “Oh, well, we gotta do something about _that_. Come here, I promise you’re gonna be an expert in no time.”

A couple minutes later, Kurt, wearing a too-big white apron and armed with a ladle, is dutifully scoping batter and pouring it on the hot pan. Louisa, after some silent deliberating, has accepted the crucial role of pancake flipper - a duty she performs with the aid of a plastic spatula, and a sense for the dramatic that Yang has no choice but to admire. “You’re a natural,” she compliments the girl, with enthusiastic applause, after a particularly hazardous flip. Louisa hides a smile behind the back of her hand, eyes fleeting to where Blake is still leaning against the counter, little Marta clinging to her, looking both amused and uncomfortable. From the way she keeps glancing at the abandoned folder, Yang can guess that Blake’s eager to go back to work. The Captain is still avoiding her eyes, but the conflicted emotions displayed in the line of her mouth, in the tautness of her shoulders, are strangely familiar: fondness plagued by guilt, and that underlying of fear which seems to run deep at the center of Captain Belladonna.

 _Why familiar?_ Yang wonders, while she keeps an eye on Louisa and Kurt. She has known Blake Belladonna for less than a day. Nothing about her should feel familiar.

It doesn’t matter. Yang’s here to help, and right now, it looks like what Blake needs is to get back to work. So Yang grabs two somewhat uneven pancakes from the slowly growing stack, plops them onto a plate, pours some maple syrup on top - a generous dose, mind you - and brings the plate to Blake. 

“Here’s breakfast for you, Captain. Trade ya?” she says, pointing to the little girl. One kiss on the cheek later, and a pouting Marta has been transferred to Yang’s arms, Blake now struggling to carry her folder, a cup of coffee, and the plate. 

“I’ll be in my office if you need me,” she says, at the door. “You be good to Ms Xiao Long, alright?”

A chorus of affirmative sounds answer her. Blake pauses, eyes tracing the scene in front of her - Marta, who was successfully distracted from her pouting by Yang appointing her in charge of drowning every single pancake in syrup, Kurt with his apron covered in specks of batter, Louisa, dark eyes glinting as she stares at her pan with all the seriousness of an Atlesian scientist monitoring a state secret experiment - and Yang spots it again, that same familiar expression on Blake’s face, longing and regret and grim determination melting into each other.

It’s only when Blake’s left the room, that it dawns on Yang, why it’s so familiar, why it pulls at her stomach uncomfortably. 

Taiyang wore that face for months around Ruby and her, after Summer died. 

* * *

She calls Ruby that night, once the kids are asleep, sitting cross-legged on her bed. The sky is dark outside, the moon hidden by clouds, and the only light in her bedroom comes from the small bedside lamp, a warm, diffuse glow. 

“Yang! I’m so glad you called! How was your first day?”

The sound of her sister’s voice, the cheerfulness of her tone, the genuine affection, stirs a sudden pang of longing in Yang’s chest. She’s been so busy getting acquainted with her new surroundings, she didn’t even realize how much she missed her family.

“It’s good to hear from you, Ruby,” she says, voice a little strangled, before clearing her throat. “Everything’s fine here. Job’s okay, the kids are… Well, I think they’re warming up to me.”

“Just don’t spoil them too much,” Ruby teases.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t want them to end up like you…”

“How dare you, I am a _delight_!”

Yang snorts. She realizes she’s smiling, wide, and falls back onto the bed, one hand under her hair. “Sure, you are. Anyway, the kids were being difficult yesterday, but I think I’m getting somewhere with them. The mom, on the other hand…”

“Oooh, _Captain Belladonna_?” Ruby croons, her tone turning so exaggeratedly suggestive it makes Yang roll her eyes. “So _mysterious_ , so _dashing_ , so _heroic_ …”

“Please stop.”

Ruby giggles. “I’ve done my research, your Captain is kind of a celebrity among the allied troops.“

“She is _definitely_ not my Captain.”

“What’s up with her?”

“You could say she’s not the warmest person I’ve ever met. And I’ve worked with Winter Schnee.”

Ruby hums softly, like she does when she knows Yang has more to say on a subject and is waiting for Yang to speak at her own pace. She’s so like Summer in that moment, the pang in Yang’s chest intensifies, aching fiercely before it subsides again. 

“She’s not…mean,” Yang adds, after a breath. “But she’s not nice either. Very strict, and very busy, from what I can tell, and so bossy and formal. God, you should have seen the uniform she was wearing yesterday when I met her for the first time ; Ruby, she had gloves on. Gloves! And her ceremonial sword! And that pretty hat, you know the kind Navy officers wear, the tricorn, and her coat was like, Ironwood-level of impeccable - she must spend a lot of money on dry-cleaning - and she has those golden eyes that just… pierce right though you, she’s so…” Yang trails down, suddenly aware that she’s rambling. “… Irritating,” she finishes, lamely. 

“O…kay,” Ruby says, sounding befuddled. “Yeah, she sounds horrible. What kind of monster wears nice clothes?”

Rolling around on the soft blanket, Yang buries her face into the pillow. “It’s hard to explain,” she groans, the words muffled by the fabric. “But trust me, she’s no fun.”

Laughter answers her, and the creaking of wood being stepped on. Ruby must be going up the stairs to her bedroom. The image fills Yang with nostalgia, and she purses her lips. God, she is a sap tonight. 

“Well, I’m sorry you don’t get along with her, but at least it sounds like you don’t have to see her that much?”

“Yeah,” Yang exhales. She props one arm by the elbow, resting her chin on the open palm, the other hand holding the phone. From Ruby’s side, she hears clothes rustling, drawers clanging opened and shut.

“You’re going to bed already?”

“Nah, just putting my pajamas on. Dad and I are watching the _Great Mistral Bake-Off_ tonight, I gotta get comfy. Speaking of, he’s probably waiting for me on the couch, you wanna say hi?” 

“It’s okay, I should probably go.” 

“Alright. Well, we miss you lots!”

Yang smiles, fondly, a little sad. “I miss you too.”

* * *

A week goes by, and Yang finds herself settling in an easy routine. 

Each day starts with breakfast, just her and the kids. Since that first morning, Blake hasn't made any other appearances in the kitchen, and Yang tries not to take it personally. Then the children get dressed and clean up, just in time before the first of their numerous tutors arrive. Professor Port, an old man with a bushy mustache, and even bushier eyebrows, teaches natural sciences, Dr Oobleck does History, Professor Peach reading and writing… They all seem capable enough, and competent, so Yang spends the lesson time in the morning reviewing security procedures and distracting Ilia from her duties.

She likes Ilia a lot. Despite her abrupt manners, and quite a protective streak when it comes to their employer, the woman is good company, full of anecdotes about her childhood in Menagerie, which is where she met Blake Belladonna, and her years at Atlas Military Academy. She doesn’t prod into Yang’s past, for which Yang is grateful, and doesn’t comment when Yang steers the conversation away from the topic of war. 

Afternoons are devoted to homework, reading, and playing outside. The garden is beautiful, and Yang enjoys that time of the day the most - the flowers and the sun, the ocean breeze, the sound of the waves crashing on the beach down the cliff.

“The children aren’t allowed on the beach, and even less on the boats, without adult supervision,” Ilia tells her on her third day, and so Yang decides to take them to the beach for an afternoon the following day. Kurt spends about an hour inspecting tide pools, and brings his bounty back for Yang to admire: one crab, missing a pincer, and three brown mussels. Yang, hands deep in a sandcastle that’s about to come crashing down thanks to Marta’s less than gentle approach to construction work, responds with what she hopes is an adequate amount of enthusiasm. Not hiding her distaste for her brother’s display of oceanic treasures, Louisa crinkles her nose. “They stink,” is her only comment.

All in all, it’s a success. Yang corals the kids back home after about three hours, walking up the steep cliff stairs and through the garden. She sees Blake watching them from her office window: a brief silhouette, here then gone. That night, at dinner, the Captain sounds strained when she asks her usual questions: how were things, did Yang see anything suspicious, did the alarms catch anyone lurking around the perimeter? A quick, tense interrogation at dinner ; that is Yang’s one and only daily interaction with Captain Belladonna. Otherwise, she barely sees the woman, who spends her days locked in her office in interminable video conferences and phone calls and whatever else a senior officer of the Navy does when she’s not commanding ships full of soldiers. 

It strikes her as odd that Blake isn’t spending more time on the frontline, helping Atlas push back Salem’s myriad incursions. There’s only so much you can do from an office, in a war - at least that’s what Ironwood used to say, when he lectured Yang’s cohort on military strategy. But Blake clearly isn’t lacking in work - she works so much, in fact, that she only sees her children in the evening, at dinner and until their bedtime. 

And the more time Yang spends with her, the more Blake reminds her of Taiyang after Summer’s death. She sees the same haunted look in Blake's eyes that she used to notice in her father's, the same avoidance, the same instinct to flee. 

* * *

A storm breaks, on the seventh day, after dinner. The sky has been heavy all day with bulky, ominous clouds, pushed inexorably towards the coast by a tenacious wind from the West. Blake doesn't attend dinner that evening, on a conference call with the General, so Yang puts the kids to bed, making sure everyone’s teeth are brushed and the lights are off. It starts raining just as she gets to her bedroom to rest for the night. 

Yang loves summer storms. She used to watch them with Ruby, the two of them pressing their noses against the cold window pane to better witness the grandiose and unnerving spectacle of a storm unleashing its strength above the ocean. She loves how it feels to be inside the house, with its warm and humid and stuffy air, while outside the elements rage. 

Missing Patch and her family, Yang opens the window farthest from her bed and inhales the taste of the summer storm, cold wind and salt and wet flowers. Past the garden, the ocean rumbles, sending tall waves to assault the beach. The two boats, anchored by the small jetty, are careening wildly with each wave. Rain falls in dense sheets, obscuring everything, but for the brief flashes of lightning.

A crack of thunder resonates, far away. Her door opens, violently, and Yang turns around in surprise to discover Marta standing in the entryway, clad in her pajamas, looking terrified. 

“Oh, Marta, are you scared of the storm?” Yang closes the window.

A vigorous nod. “Come here,” Yang says, patting her bed. 

Marta launches herself onto the bed, and under the cover. Yang sits next to her, puts an arm around her shoulders. “It’s okay, you know, you’re safe.”

Another boom of thunder. Marta sniffles. “Hey, hey, no crying. Look at me, I’m here! Do you need me to go get your mom?”

“She’s working,” Marta murmurs, in a small voice, teary-eyed. Yang’s heart breaks a little. 

Before she can say anything, the door opens again. This time it’s Kurt, with a flashlight, and wide eyes. 

Yang raises an eyebrow. “You okay, buddy?”

“I don’t like storms,” Kurt says, nervously. Yang pokes Marta in the tummy. “What do you say? Think we can make some space for your brother?”

The little girl giggles, and Kurt, with a watery smile, joins them on Yang’s bed. He waves the flashlight, proudly. “Blake always says you have to be prepared in an emergency, so I brought my light in case the storm makes the electricity go out.”

He looks at Yang, hopeful, eager to please. She passes a hand in his curly dark hair. “That’s great thinking, Kurt, thank you.”

Lightning illuminates the room, violent slashes of yellow. Then thunder again. The two kids huddle around Yang, and she hugs them both close. 

“What about Louisa? You guys think she’s okay?”

“Oh, yes, she’s ten and a half,” Marta says, wisely. “She’s not afraid of anything, she’s almost a grown up.”

The last word is barely out of her mouth when the door opens again, slowly this time, revealing none other than Louisa, biting her lip, eyes downcast. _Uh huh_ , Yang thinks to herself, amused.

“You wanna come in, Louisa?”

The girl hesitates, shuffling feet on the doorway. “I’m not scared. I just wanted to make sure Kurt and Marta were okay.” She risks a glance at Yang, defiant. 

Yang smiles. “That’s very sweet of you. I’m sure they would feel better if you joined us, though. Right guys?”

Kurt nods vigorously, pointing his flashlight at his older sister. “Yeah!” Marta wriggles forward on her knees. “We can have a slumber party if you come Louisa!”

Closing the door behind her, Louisa, clearly convinced by such sound arguments, chucks her slippers by the desk and plops herself at the foot of the bed. A sudden gust of wind, and the rain slams against the windows, the avalanche of water hitting glass with a deafening noise. 

Marta whimpers, one small hand gripping Yang’s shirt. Kurt winces, fingers tight around his plastic flashlight. Even Louisa, for all her studied calm, can’t quite stop herself from looking nervously towards the windows, and the storm raging outside. Yang takes in the scene: the three kids sitting on her bed around her, in their light cotton pajamas, dark hair and dark eyes and dark fear. All around them, the manor is still, huge and silent and empty ; but Yang’s bedroom feels like a bubble of warmth in the cold, dark building. There’s light and life, here, her jacket hanging from the back of the chair, the old dented radio she brought from home sitting on the bedside table, books on the desk, a bike magazine, still open, lazily thrown on the floor by the bed ; the smell of damp earth still permeates the air from when Yang briefly opened the window. 

It’s the only place where the children could find some respite from the frightful storm - well, the only place besides… Yang pictures Blake alone in her office downstairs, sitting at her desk, in the uncomfortable-looking wooden chair, staring at the screen of her computer, with papers neatly stacked before her, probably sorted in piles from less classified to highly top secret. 

Blake’s office doesn’t feel warm - it’s, functional, tidy, sensible, just like Blake herself. And it’s not what these kids need right now.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea,” Yang says, cheerful and loud enough to cover the storm. “You know what my dad used to tell us when me and my little sister Ruby got scared or sad? He’d tell us to think real hard and list our _favorite things_. Marta, what’s one of your favorite things?”

Silence. Marta, too shaken, presses herself closer to Yang, pouting. 

“Alright, I’ll start then. One of my favorite things is…” Yang pretends to rack her brain for an answer. “Drinking a cup of coffee in the morning, with a dash of cream, and two sugars. Louisa, your turn.”

“Coffee is gross,” Louisa grumbles, making Yang laugh. “My favorite thing is… I like when we make a fire in the fireplace and I can stand very close and get all warm and read my book by the firelight.”

“Oh, that’s a good one! What about you Kurt?”

The little boy frowns, deep in concentration. “I like when squirrels come to eat the grains we put in the feeder on the big old tree in the garden.”

Marta giggles at that, nodding enthusiastically. “Yeah? You like the squirrels too?” Yang asks her, with a smile. “What else do you like, Marta?”

Still giggling, the little girl starts counting on her fingers. “One, chocolate ice cream. Two, chocolate cake. Three…” She frowns. 

“Chocolate pudding?” Kurt provides, helpfully.

“ Yes, and also brownies.”

“I’m starting to sense a theme, here,” Yang jokes. “Anything besides chocolatey desserts?”

“I like when Blake reads me a story before bedtime the most.” Marta’s smile vanishes. “But she hasn’t done it in a long time.”

“She has a lot of work,” Louisa says, in a tight voice, squeezing her little sister’s hand. “You know she has a very important job, Marta.”

“She has to help save the world!” Kurt says, and in his voice there’s such a tremendous amount of admiration, that if she weren’t paying attention, Yang would have missed the hint of sorrow - but she catches it, and it makes her heart aches.

 _Blake doesn’t know_ , Yang thinks, _how much her kids miss her_. But this isn’t a problem she can fix - she’s a temporary baby sitter, this is way above her pay-grade. What she can do, however, is keep distracting them from the storm. 

“Hey, I have an other excellent idea!” Extricating herself from between Marta and Kurt, Yang hops off from the bed and grabs her guitar. She turns to face the kids sitting on her bed, one foot propped up on her desk chair, the bottom of the guitar’s body resting on her knee.

“How about I play you some music, huh? And we can sing your favorite songs, that oughta make your forget about the storm.”

A silence, troubled by booming thunder and rushing wind, falls on the three children while they stare at her, conflicted.

“Um, we don’t really like music,” Kurt says with an apologetic head tilt.

“How come?”

“Music makes Blake sad. And dance, and TV, and even books sometimes. But especially music.”

Yang frowns. There’s something on Louisa’s face when she answers, a shadow of fear, and Yang wonders what the eldest girl knows. Maybe she should ask Ilia a few questions about their brooding employer, because whatever is eating at Blake clearly affects the kids, and she may barely know the Captain, but Yang is certain that this isn’t what Blake wants. After all, Yang promised her she would keep the children not only safe, but happy. 

But there will be time for such considerations later. For now, Yang intends on changing their minds.

Her fingers pluck at the strings, with the ease of habit. She’s not a great guitar player, by any means, but she’s comfortable around the instrument, used to playing it for Tai and Ruby, and Summer too, a long time ago. “Well, in my experience, music makes people happy.”

Despite their initial protest, Kurt, Marta and Louisa are a captive audience from the start. Yang chooses to play them a popular folk song from Mistral, and, realizing with dismay that they aren’t familiar with the piece, sets about teaching them the lyrics. Timid at first, the children soon get into it - even more so when she encourages them to try and be louder than the storm outside. The result isn’t what one would call “beautiful”, but it’s better: it’s fun. 

Yang taps the cadence with her foot, playing and laughing as the kids sing. Kurt and Marta are now standing on the bed, jumping up and down as they belt out the lyrics. Louisa is smiling wide and eyeing the guitar with interest, a fact which Yang doesn’t miss.

They’re in the middle of their third performance when the door bursts open, revealing a quite unhappy-looking Captain Belladonna. “What is all this racket? I can hear you from downstairs! Why are none of you in bed?” 

Everything halts. Marta and Kurt stop pretending the bed is a trampoline, instead moving to stand sheepishly to the side, joined by their sister. Yang plays a chord, nonchalantly, hoping to break the sudden tension, and sends Blake one of her most charming smiles. “Care to join us, Captain?”

It only earns her a glare. “What in the world are you doing, Ms Xiao Long?”

Yang sighs, putting the guitar down at last. “They were scared of the storm, and came to find me, so…”

“So you thought, let’s have an impromptu guitar jam in the middle of the night?” 

“Well, yes.”

Blake clenches her jaw, and makes an obvious effort to master her emotions. She turns to the kids, still a bit stern, but her voice devoid of any anger. “Are you still scared?”

“No, we’re fine,” Louisa says, looking embarrassed. 

“Then I think it’s time for bed. You have school tomorrow.” She gives each of them a kiss as they file out of the room. Yang watches them go, arms crossed, leaning back against the desk. She can tell the Captain isn’t done with her. And she's right: as soon as the kids are out of earshot, Blake turns her attention to Yang once again. It’s just the two of them, standing six feet apart in the quiet room, wind and rain rattling the windows behind them. In the semi-darkness, Blake’s face looks even more striking than usual, the melted gold of her eyes framed by dark velvety hair. The lamplight plays on the lines of her high cheekbones, and softens the downward curve of her lips, in such a way that Yang finds herself staring at Blake’s mouth.

It’s Blake’s tone that makes her look up - the unexpected harshness of it. “What were you thinking? Do you have any idea how it made me feel when I realized I could hear my children _yelling_ upstairs? I thought… “ Blake swallows, and hides her hands behind her back, glaring at Yang. “I thought something had happened to them. Do I really have to explain to you how irresponsible this all was?”

It should make Yang see red, the way Blake speaks to her, with her righteous tone, her imperious stance, her words dripping with ire and reproach. It should rile up her temper, but it doesn’t, because all Yang hears, all she sees, is a woman trying to contain her welling terror behind a wall of anger and steel - and failing. And Yang… Yang can’t help but feel for her.

“It wasn’t my intention to scare you, Captain, I’m sorry,” she says, softly, looking Blake in the eye.

“I wasn’t…” Blake inhales, and draws her shoulders up, like a soldier standing to attention. “I understand you were trying to comfort them, and I thank you for that. But Ms Xiao Long… don’t let something like this happen again.”

And with that, she leaves Yang to herself, closing the door behind her.

* * *

That night, as Yang lies in bed, she comes to a realization. The storm outside has grown quieter, but raindrops still splatter on the window, and the rhythm of it slowly lulls Yang to sleep. 

Ironwood made it clear that she wasn’t needed in the air force anymore. Well, she is needed _here_. They _need_ her, Louisa, Kurt, and little Marta, and Blake too. So she’ll stay for as long as they’ll need her.

For the kids, Yang tells herself as sleep takes her, and it’s not a lie. But it’s not the full truth either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, putting in a reference to social distancing in this chapter? More likely than you think!


	4. Start at the very beginning

One early Saturday morning, three weeks after the storm, Yang finds Blake in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, ankles crossed, a mug of steaming tea held between her palms. It’s the first time Blake shows up for breakfast since Yang made pancakes on her very first morning, a month ago, and something suspiciously close to hope stirs in Yang’s stomach. Is Blake finally warming up to her? She’s not sure when she started caring about Blake's feelings towards her, but it's pretty clear she does, given the smile blooming, unbidden, on her lips. 

“Ahoy, Captain! It’s rare to see you in the kitchen so early. No pressing work this morning?”

Blake doesn’t smile back as she meets Yang’s eyes. As soon as it came, Yang’s fragile, sprouting hope dissolves. Blake looks even more guarded than usual, which Yang would not have thought possible. Her gaze is inscrutable - like a tinted window, there is no telling what goes on inside. And someone less observant might believe the dark shadows under Blake’s eyes to be the remnants of old make-up, but Yang knows it’s most definitely the result of a severe case of sleep deprivation. 

“Not today, no, Ms Xiao Long,” Blake replies. The sound of her voice makes Yang wince - the lack of emotion, the tightly controlled performance of disinterested formality. It grates on her, and for an absurd second, she’s overcome with the impulse to grab the Captain by the shoulders and shake her out of whatever this is, to get in her face and demand a reaction, to sit her down at her own kitchen table and talk some sense into her. 

She doesn’t do anything of the sort, of course, but it doesn’t feel _right_. Like walking by a person drowning without stopping to help them out of the water. 

Before Yang can think of anything to add, the kids come in, in their pajamas, hair tousled from sleep. They greet Blake enthusiastically, but Blake - who always lightens up around her children, whose stony expression always melts away whenever they are near, hard shell cracking to reveal tender insides - only gives them a tight, pained smile.

It rattles Yang, the sight of Blake’s forced cheer, worse than anything else. Unable to shake the apprehension clotting in her guts, she busies herself with pouring cereal and milk in bowls while the children take their seats around the table, clamoring for orange juice and blabbering about their plans for the weekend, which mainly involve reading comic books and playing soccer in the backyard. 

“Marta can’t be goalie this time, though,” Kurt protests, narrowing his eyes at his little sister. “She lets all the balls in!”

Having taken a seat as well, Blake clears her throat. “I’m taking today off from work,” she announces to the room. In the stunned silence that follows, she offers the same mildly anguished smile. “We can spend the whole day together for once. What do you think?” Marta claps her little hands together, big brown eyes widened in delight, and Kurt whoops ; he stands up so fast his stool clatters to the ground.

Yang fills a cup with coffee, quiet, waiting. Blake’s fingers are so tense around her porcelain mug that her knuckles have turned white as bones. There is more to this than a woman taking a day off to spend time with her family. 

Louisa hasn’t moved either. She stares at her bowl of cereal, frowning, while her siblings rush to Blake, hugging her from both sides. “What’s wrong?” Louisa asks, somberly. Blake licks her lips, lifts her head to look at Louisa, and _there_ it is, so easy to spot: crushing guilt in her eyes, anxiety in the thin line of her lips. 

“Louisa…”

“You only take days off when something is wrong. Or when you have to leave.” Louisa’s bottom lip trembles ever so slightly, as if she’s close to tears, and Yang is seized with panic. She can’t handle the thought of these kids being sad, let alone crying. They’ve gone through enough, they deserve to be happy, damnit.

Blake sighs. She reaches out and cups Louisa’s face, thumb rubbing small circles on her cheek. “My clever, clever girl…”

Kurt looks up at her with worried eyes. “Blake?”

“I’m sorry, I wanted to give us a bit more time before telling you. You’re right, something is wrong. General Ironwood has a job for me, he’s trusting me with something extremely important, and I have to leave very early tomorrow for the frontline.”

“No, don’t go!” Marta whines, arms tightening around Blake’s midsection. “Please don’t go!”

“For how long?” Louisa asks, still staring at her breakfast instead of meeting Blake’s eyes. There’s a hint of something in her tone that has Yang cocking her head. Something curt and a little brittle, not unlike anger.

“It should not take more than a week.”

Yang blinks. A whole week?

“But you won’t be alone!” Blake says, in a tone that vacillates between comforting and pleading. “You’ll have Ms Xiao Long with you, and Ilia will be staying here as well. It will go so fast, you won’t even miss me, I promise!”

“I _will_ miss you,” Marta cries. Her eyes are wet with tears now, a sharp and unhappy contrast to her exuberant joy mere minutes ago.

“Oh, honey, don’t cry.” Blake scoops her in her arms, settling the little girl in her lap. She kisses her forehead. “I’m so sorry. I will miss you so much too. But you have to be brave for me, alright? You all have to be brave a little longer. Can you do that for me, Marta?”

Marta hiccups, but nods, hiding her face in Blake’s chest. Yang’s heart rises to her throat. She’s familiar with Marta’s emotions, the absolute, paralyzing fear which takes hold of you when someone you love has to leave, and the desperate attempt at swallowing it down. Who knows what awaits Blake, out there on the frontline? Summer, after all, never came back. 

Kurt’s eyes flit between Blake and his older sister. “Do you really have to go?” he asks. The defeat in his voice shatters something in Yang’s heart, and she has to take a sip of coffee, burning her tongue in the process, to prevent herself from intervening. “Can’t you tell the General that you don’t want to do it this time?”

Blake brushes his hair away from his face, smiling sadly, and presses him tight against her side, dropping a kiss on the top of his head. “He needs me, Kurt. A lot of people need me.”

“ _We_ need you!” Louisa snaps. Oh, yeah, definitely anger. 

“I know that, sweetheart. I know. I’m sorry I have to ask this of you, believe me, but I wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t necessary. Louisa…” Blake rests her hand in front of the girl, flat on the table, palm up, inviting.

At first, Louisa doesn’t move. Yang keeps sipping her too-hot coffee. She can’t feel the inside of her mouth anymore. Eventually, Louisa takes Blake’s hand in her own, and Blake squeezes her fingers. For a moment, a blessed, fragile moment, nobody moves: Blake sits at the end of the table, Marta curled up on her knees, Kurt tucked under her right arm, holding Louisa’s hand, and Yang, opposite her, keeps still, a cup of coffee in her hands and bone-deep sadness in her limbs. She doesn’t dare move, or speak - a stranger intruding on another family’s misery.

Blake straightens up. “Alright, enough moping! We have the whole day in front of us, let’s make the most of it. What do you three want to do?”

Silence. Marta murmurs timidly: “Ice cream?”

“Sure,” Blake says, with a valiant smile, “we’ll get you some ice cream. What about you, Kurt? Still down for some soccer?”

“Pardon the interruption, Captain, but, hum. How can I help?”

Blake looks up, surprise etched into her face as if she had forgotten that Yang was even here. “Oh, Ms Xiao Long, you can take the day off as well. Please, do as you wish. You certainly deserve the rest.”

“Are you sure, Captain? I don’t mind staying at the house if you need an extra pair of hands,” Yang finds herself insisting. She’s not sure why she does so. Maybe part of her is dreading Blake’s upcoming absence, the hole it will tear into the fabric of her now familiar routine in this house. Maybe she’s curious to see what Captain Belladonna is like when she’s not working, when she’s not perpetually distracted by a report or a meeting. 

“I’m positive.”

Yang nods, not pushing further. Blake must want the children to herself before her week-long trip. She so rarely sees them. As Yang takes her leave from the kitchen, she glances back over her shoulder at Blake one more time, instinctively forcing herself to memorize the sight of Blake sitting at breakfast, surrounded by the children she so obviously loves, the endearing mix of rigidity and softness in her features. Her hair falls down like a dark, rich curtain against the stark white of her shirt. Her golden eyes are still melancholic, her shoulders still too tense, but the smile, at last, is a genuine one.

She hopes Blake comes back home.

* * *

Well, a day off is a day off, no matter the circumstances. Yang may feel a whole array of mixed feelings about the situation, but she won’t let a chance to have fun go to waste. As she brushes her teeth and ponders about possibilities, she discovers that despite spending the past month working nonstop at the Belladonna residence - or maybe because of it - she feels more active than in a long time. Nothing like the recent months in Patch, when she could only muster the energy to ride her bike to the warehouse, when the prospect of being around another human being rather than her old airship was akin to torture. Right now, in fact, she longs to be around people, to be distracted from all the heartache of the morning. And she knows exactly where to find what she needs: the city of Vale.

The manor is quiet as Yang walks down the stairs, crossing the large empty hall leading to the main door. The thud of her boots on marble resonates too loudly. There is no sign of Blake or the children. She finds her bike where she parked it, in the garage by the main gate where Blake keeps two vehicles, a sleek black car that looks like it came right out of a spy movie, and an old van with dusty windows. Yang pushes her bike through the gate, then fastens her helmet, plucking her aviator glasses from the chest pocket of her bomber jacket. It’s only when she’s racing along the coast, with wind in her hair and heat from the morning sun baking the top of her shoulders and her back, that she realizes how good it feels to be out. Barring a handful of trips to the beach, this is the first time she’s set foot outside of the house since she first arrived. 

She’s been so busy, so focused on the children, on the Captain - she didn’t realize how much she needed this: the freedom, the adventure, a whole day in front of her and nothing to do but exactly what she wants. On her left, the vast ocean stretches all the way to the horizon, placid and blue, glinting in the sun. To her right, the hills roll, echoing the ocean waves, some yellow-green with shards of bright colors where flowers grow, others, covered in pine trees, a darker shade of green. She grins, and tastes salt on her tongue, and the rich aroma of summer. Far to her right, on a slanting hill, a family is playing a game of softball, and it makes her think of the Belladonna children, who never really get to go out, what with the Captain’s extreme paranoia. 

Just as Vale come into view, Yang makes a decision. These kids need a change of scenery. A bit of freedom. And since Captain Belladonna will be gone, and they’ll no doubt be affected by her departure, what better time to start than tomorrow?

Now with a plan, she parks her bike and strides into downtown Vale and its crowd of people out shopping: families with excited kids, bands of giggling teenagers, thirty-somethings who look like they’d rather be at home than running errands. It’s like the war against Salem doesn’t even matter here, and though Yang is somewhat mystified by the normalcy of life in Vale, it’s also comforting, in a way.

She visits several stores, then charms her way into leaving her shopping bags at a nearby hotel reception for free. Feeling self-indulgent, Yang treats herself to a nice lunch - whatever you think of Blake Belladonna as a person, as an employer she pays well and diligently - before she goes on a nice leisurely stroll by the harbor. The ferry departing for Patch makes her unexpectedly emotional. On an impulse, she sends a goofy postcard to her dad and Ruby. 

In the main park of the city, she sits on a wooden bench and lights a cigarette, soaking in the peaceful, lively atmosphere. An amateur quartet is playing music in a corner, people are hanging out with friends, sitting on blankets and sharing cold drinks. Yang wonders what the kids and Blake are up to, and she can’t help feeling lonely, all of a sudden. Trying to distract herself, she picks up an abandoned newspaper. It’s mostly boring stuff, though flicking through the pages, she does notice a name coming up a lot, a name she’s never seen before. Cinder Fall. A local politician of some kind. And on one of the last pages, a small paragraph catches her eyes: the paper is reporting trouble in Argus, the last atlesian base on the continent. 

Yang can’t help wondering if that’s where Blake is headed.

* * *

“Rise and shine, sleepyheads!” 

Armed with her most cheerful voice and a dazzling smile, Yang ventures into each of the children’s bedrooms and opens the blinds, letting the sun in. A concert of groans and protests answer her. She knows they went to bed later than usual, asking Blake for another story, and another story, until they all but passed out in Blake’s bed. She heard, from her room, Blake carrying each of them to their respective bed, gently closing each door shut, and retreating to her own bedroom, even later still.

Yang did not hear Blake leave however, which means she must have barely slept. Oh well, nothing to do about it. Right now, Yang’s on mission.

“I know you’re a bit tired, but I have great plans for today! Come on, we’re having pancakes for breakfast.”

That gets Marta up at least, and her siblings soon follow. The three of them are despondent, barely saying a word, but they don’t protest when Yang gets them dressed in outdoor clothes. In fact, their curiosity awakens as she hands each of them a light backpack, and tells them in a conspiratorial tone not to open it yet.

“What’s in the bag?” Louisa asks, suspicious.

“You’ll see!”

She herself hoists a much bigger backpack onto her shoulders, and leads them outside to the old van already waiting for them in the driveway.

“We’re going out?” Kurt says, confused.

“Yep!”

“But what about Ilia? She’s not there yet! She’ll be worried if she doesn’t see us!”

“I texted her this morning, and I put all the information about where we’re going on her desk. I have my phone, so she can call us anytime.” She ruffles his hair. “No need to worry, buddy, it’s all good! We’re going on an adventure, aren’t you excited?”

He smiles, a little hesitant, so she bends over to whisper in his ear, “I packed your flashlight in your bag, just in case.”

At that, his smile widens and he nods before eagerly joining his sisters in the car.

Yang drives them up the coastal road, then turns right, inland, on a dirt path which serpents between the hills. The motor rumbles as they start going up, and loose gravel crinkle under the wheels. Yang thinks idly that she should give the old thing a check-up, if she makes it a habit of driving the children around. They reach the top of the highest hill, and she parks the car under the shade of a tall alder tree. From up here, they have a great view of the forest of Forever Fall, a vast expanse of trees whose striking red and orange leaves resemble a wave of fire swallowing the horizon. 

Louisa and Kurt rush out of the car while Yang frees little Marta from her seat. 

“It’s beautiful!” Kurt says, wide-eyed. His head swivels, his dark curly hair bouncing as he tries to take in everything at once. 

“It’s just like the woods near where we used to live in Mistral,” Louisa whispers, almost to herself. “Except they would only turn red in the fall.”

“Yep,” Yang says, as she and Marta join them on the edge of the hill. “Forever Fall is one of Vale’s most popular natural landmarks.” Part of her wonders why Blake never took them to see the forest - they live so close, and after all, it’s not like Salem’s army is going to be waiting for them under the trees, right in the middle of Vale… But she pushes the thought aside. She’s given up on trying to make sense of the Captain’s decisions when it comes to safety. Time for these kids to get a breath of fresh air. 

“Alright,” she says, facing them with her hands on her hips. “Final inspection! Backpacks?”

“Check!” say three voices in unison, as they grip the shoulder straps of their bags proudly.

“Shoes tied?”

“Yes!”

“Sunscreen?”

“On!”

“Hats?”

They all put on the brightly colored caps she bought them in one of Vale’s numerous tourist traps, each one uglier than the next, and look at her expectantly. With barely suppressed laughter, Yang puts on her own cap, an abomination of nauseating pink and flashy yellow adorned with the sentence I HEART VALE in a disgustingly flowery font. “Oh, we gotta take a picture, guys, this is too perfect.”

They press around her as she crouches down, Marta in front of her, Louisa to her left and Kurt to her right, the majestic Forever Fall forest as their background. “Everyone make a funny face! Three… two… one…”

Her phone’s camera flashes. She shows them the picture, and they all burst out laughing when they see the result. Warmth settles in Yang’s chest as she watches them like this, carefree and giggling and childlike. This is what she wanted. 

They spend the rest of the morning hiking down the hill and into the forest. Yang is no wildlife expert, but she still points out birds and squirrels and rabbits when she can, and lets them collect a few red leaves as souvenirs. 

Around noon, they reach a clearing in the forest, and they sit down for a picnic. Yang lays a large colorful blanket on the grass, and sets up the food she prepared very early in the morning: sandwiches and chips and a big potato salad in a tupperware, lemonade and fruits and chocolate bars for dessert. The kids devour everything, hungry from the hike. 

After lunch, Yang puts away the containers, and sits crosslegged on the blanket. 

“Okay, now you can look into your backpacks,” she says, grinning. 

“Wow, what is this?” Kurt exclaims, peering inside the bag. 

“You got us guitars?” Louisa says, astonished, as she and Marta pull out identical instruments.

“Not quite. Those, my friends, are ukuleles, and very small ones at that. My guitar is a tad too big to carry on a hike, but I thought we could still have some fun and play some music together! What do you say?”

Kurt strums the four strings enthusiastically. Marta giggles. “Are you really going to teach us how to play?” Louisa asks, staring at Yang with eyes full of wonder.

“You bet! And the first lesson is how to hold the thing. Here, let me show you.”

For the next hour or so, Yang teaches them the basics of playing the ukulele: how to brace it against the chest and onto the right thigh, how to curl one hand to strum it, where to press their fingers to hold down strings on the neck, a few of the major chords. Then they try to perform a folk song from Menagerie together, Yang singing the lyrics while the children play. It’s not anywhere near good, but none of them care - they’re having a great time, and it’s all that matters.

After a while, Marta and Kurt get tired of the music lesson, so Yang has them playing games instead, until it’s time to leave. The trek back to the car is more subdued, and the ride back home quiet. In fact, they fall asleep right after dinner, exhausted by such a long, exciting day. 

As she gets ready for bed, Yang can’t help but feel a great deal of pride. Mission accomplished: throughout the whole day, none of the kids mentioned Blake’s absence, not even once.

* * *

“Ilia! Fancy a drink before you leave?”

Ilia stops in her tracks, fingers already curling around the door’s handle. She turns around as Yang, who just finished putting the children to bed, exits the kitchen. She was hoping to catch Ilia on her way out.

Captain Belladonna has been gone for three days, and Yang is craving some adult interactions. Sure, she’s talked to Ruby and her father on the phone, but there’s something to be said for in person conversation. Though Ilia, like Blake promised, has been spending every day at the manor, she’s working most of the time. She sometimes shares a meal with them, and minds the kids for a few hours so Yang can relax, but she always leaves right after the children are tucked in bed for the night, and Yang hasn’t had a chance to enjoy her company yet. 

“I don’t know if I should, I’m driving…”

“Come on, one drink. I’ll call you a cab if you don’t feel like taking the car.” Yang waves the two bottles of beer she’s holding, enticingly. “We deserve some rest and relaxation, you and I, for holding down the fort!”

Ilia hesitates, standing still in her pristine uniform, her old leather briefcase in one hand. Yang flashes her what Ruby calls her winning smile: all teeth out, big and bright and, if she dares say so herself, pretty damn charming. It does the trick. Ilia rolls her eyes, but she relents, dropping the briefcase in the entryway, and gesturing at Yang to lead the way. 

It’s a warm summer night, with a gentle breeze, so they decide to have their drink outside on the patio. String lights hung above them bathe the outdoor table and wicker chairs in comforting soft hues, a little bubble of light in an otherwise very dark night. Here, far from the city, the stars are striking in their multitude. Yang looks up, longingly, at the sky, as she sits down in one of the wicker chairs.

They click their bottles together, and take a sip. Ilia sighs, eyes closed, shoulders drooping a bit. “You know, I think I needed this, actually. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Yang lights a cigarette and offers the pack to Ilia, who declines. “Good choice, I hear smoking's bad for you.”

“Then why do you do it?”

Yang exhales a cloud of smoke, stretching her legs out in front of her. “I picked up the habit in the Air Force. My instructor, Calavera, smoked like a chimney. The pipe, mostly, but she’d never say no to a cigarette in a bind. It was something to do, while we waited for the planes to be ready, or during long layovers… After the accident, it felt like the only thing I could preserve from my life as a pilot.” 

Ilia nods. “I get it. It's hard to sever connections to the past, even when they're bad habits. We all struggle with what to keep and what to throw away, and I guess sometimes we end up keeping things we shouldn't.” She takes another sip of her beer, then adds, under her breath, “Though some people go a little too far in the other direction. But try and tell Blake that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Blake is…” Ilia pauses, conflicted, and rubs the back of her neck. “She’s not keen on anything that reminds her of the past. I suppose I understand why, but I can’t say it strikes me as healthy.” She takes a swig, shaking her head, half-irritated, half-amused. “I’ve had that conversation with her so many times, but she is _nothing_ if not stubborn.”

Yang pulls on her cigarette. The smoke escapes her lips, and quickly dissolves into the night. “You really know her well, huh?”

“You could say that. We met in Menagerie, spent four years at Atlas Military Academy as cadets, and then served on the same ship.” Ilia’s lips curve in a fond smile. “It was the best of times, you know. Back then, we were very young, and a little too idealistic. We thought we would win the war easily, everything was an adventure. We worked hard, trained hard, but every night we could we’d go out, in different ports, in different bars, and we would sit at the piano and play music and sing and laugh. Always the three of us, me, Blake, and Adam…”

She cuts herself off, abruptly. 

“Who’s Adam?”

“Someone we used to know.”

The tension in Ilia’s voice is unmistakable. Yang changes the subject. “So you’re telling me Captain Belladonna can sing? Somehow I find that hard to believe.”

Ilia chuckles, relaxing a little. “Oh, Blake has a wonderful voice. And she knew the filthiest sailors songs, which, as you can imagine, made her real popular with the crowd. I will never forget how it felt to listen to her sing, to watch her smile and laugh her way through a bawdy sea shanty, a little drunk, with her white cap awry and her uniform all wrinkled…”

There is something dreamy in Ilia’s expression that Yang has never seen before. She narrows her eyes, remembering one of their first conversations, and the passionate way Ilia had jumped to Blake’s defense when Yang made a dismissive comment about the Captain. Something tightens in her chest. “Wait a minute… Ilia… are you in love with Blake? Are you two…?”

“No!” Ilia’s brown skin darkens across the bridge of her nose and on her freckled cheeks. “No, I…” She sighs, and offers Yang a sheepish half-smile. “The truth is, I _was_ in love with her. A long time ago.”

“But not anymore?”

“No, not anymore. It wasn’t… Blake never felt the same way, so overtime my feelings just turned platonic. Don’t get me wrong, I still love her with all my heart,” she says, fiercely, “but as a friend.”

Yang minutely crushes the tip of her cigarette into the ashtray until it no longer glows orange, hoping to hide the odd sense of relief that washed over her. She gives Ilia an appreciative nod. “Good for you. Not everyone is as graceful as you when their feelings aren’t reciprocated.”

“You don’t say,” Ilia murmurs to herself. Then she quirks an eyebrow at Yang. “Why do you ask anyway, Xiao Long?”

Yang shrugs. “Just curious, I guess.”

“I see.” Ilia sends an indecipherable look her way. Yang is suddenly grateful for the darkness surrounding them, as, inexplicably, her ears grow red-hot under Ilia’s piercing gaze.

* * *

It’s not an easy week. Yang can’t distract the kids from the fact that Blake is gone every single minute of every single day. A subtle but unavoidable sense of disquiet weights on the manor and its inhabitants, Yang included. 

But it’s not a bad week either. In fact, paradoxically, they have plenty of fun. Each afternoon and evening is filled with as many activities as Yang can think of, and after growing up with self-professed hyperactive child Ruby, it turns out she has quite the knack for entertaining children.

They go on a variety of field trips nearby, and even once to the farmer’s market in Vale, where Yang lets them pick out vegetables to cook for dinner. Marta, trying to reach one tomato at the very top of a precariously high pile, accidentally knocks out the whole display. Her brown eyes immediately fill with guilty tears, but Yang laughs it out, pays for the whole mess of slightly squashed tomatoes, and promises to make a big batch of tomato sauce. “You like pizza, don’t you?” she asks a pouty-lipped Marta, who sniffs a little but still nods a vigorous yes in response. 

They cook every meal together. Kurt and Louisa get very invested in experimenting with spices and herbs, and poor Ilia, appointed judge against her will, gets the dubious honor of having to taste every new concoction they come up with. She fulfills her obligations with dignity and barely any complaints, though she does glare at Yang whenever the food offered to her is particularly inedible. But she indulges the kids nonetheless, and Yang’s fondness for her grows tenfold. To reward her, Yang bakes a few batches of Summer’s famous salted caramel cookies, and sneaks a dozen of them into Ilia’s briefcase.

Of course, she keeps teaching them how to play the ukulele. Louisa especially is keen to learn. She’s a serious kid, focused, a fast-learner. There’s a drive in her that is so very like Captain Belladonna’s, and though Louisa doesn’t say anything, it’s clear how much she cares for Blake, and how much she misses her. Yang is once more reminded of the year after Summer disappeared, and the complex tangle of feelings she harbored towards her father: fierce love, tainted with worry and a dash of resentment. Tai pulled himself back from the brink, eventually - Yang can only hope Blake will follow a similar path.

Kurt is more timid than Louisa, but just as curious and eager. He follows Yang around like a puppy, watching her work on her bike, or her prosthetic arm, or her old radio, until she asks him if he wants to help her fix up the van. Afterwards, his cheeks are smeared with grease, his clothes stink of oil and rust, but he is grinning wider than she’s ever seen, and while she helps him clean up he can’t stop babbling a million questions on various machines and how they work. “We’ll make an engineer out of you!” she jokes, crouched in front of him on the wet tiles of the bathroom, patting his hair dry, and gasps in surprise when the boy gives her a sudden, quick hug before running out to his bedroom to put on pajamas. She’s so touched, she forgets to scold him for leaving his damp towel in a heap on the floor.

As for Marta, she’s the most openly affectionate of the three, and the most temperamental, which makes her a real menace. Yang has to muster all the discipline and stoicism drilled into her by Calavera and Ironwood to not cave and give in to Marta’s requests for candy, chocolate, less baths in general, and a much later bedtime. Though she does end up reading Marta a story every night before bed, to the little girl’s triumphant satisfaction. Watching her listen, enraptured, to a fairytale, and fall asleep with a delighted smile on her face is definitely worth it.

And Yang, in the course of a week, realizes that there is no going back. She _loves_ them. Louisa and Kurt and Marta, and even Ilia. And Blake, though she’s not sure how _that_ happened. She loves this complicated family, like she hasn’t loved anything ever since the accident that cost her an arm and a career. 

The wound is not gone, exactly, but it is scabbing over. Slowly, day after day, she's healing.


	5. Captain

Weiss lets her head fall back against the soft leather of the car seat, and exhales with relief as they drive past the city limits, Blake’s car racing down the scenic coastal road. They’re almost there. What a long trip it’s been, from the Atlesian military base in Argus to the city of Vale: it took two different airships, one after the other, with a thirty minutes break in between to stretch their legs. Weiss has spent too many hours fidgeting in an uncomfortable seat, in an unpleasantly cold cabin, and, worst of all, bored out of her mind, too tired to work on some of her projects, and unable to chat with her fellow travelers to pass the time, what with the rumble of the airship motor drowning all other noises. 

The journey would have been exhausting on its own, but on top of that Weiss just survived one of the most intense weeks of her life - seven days of high anxiety, of adrenaline, of constant focus, steeped in the knowledge that if they failed this crucial operation in Argus, it would be the end of their hopes to ever retake the continent of Mistral from Salem. And the end of her personal efforts trying to persuade General Ironwood that the idea wasn’t worthless in the first place. That a strategic retreat could be achieved without giving up on a whole continent, on so many people, on so many lives. 

Weiss yawns, and rubs at the sore muscles of her neck. Next to her, Blake is focused on the road, one hand on the wheel, her other arm resting leisurely out of the open window. She’s still in her officer garb, impeccably put together despite the fact that as of today they’re all officially on leave, but that’s hardly surprising: ever since they met, a few years ago, Weiss has rarely seen Blake in civilian clothing. Her uniform is a second skin, her job a second nature. Or perhaps more accurately, Weiss reckons, Blake’s uniform is like a suit of armor: it offers protection, and conceals her from the world.

Unlike Blake, and unlike her own sister, Weiss has never formally enrolled in the military, preferring to work as a strategy consultant, and providing the war effort with invaluable resources through her numerous contacts throughout Remnant - perks of her family name - so she’s never had to wear a uniform. But she thinks she understands how Blake feels about it nonetheless, except what serves as metaphorical armor for her is a very real weapon: her rapier, a family heirloom that’s never left her side, giving her the courage to go against her father’s wishes, and to fight relentlessly against Salem’s reign of terror. Even now, far from the battleground, she finds comfort in knowing it’s within easy reach, safely tucked away in the trunk of Blake’s car with all their luggage. 

“How much longer?” asks Sun, lounging in the back seat, in the green and brown khakis of the allied ground troops. Sun, of course, barely waited to be out of the Argus base before taking some liberty with his dress code. Though his unbuttoned shirt, completely against regulations, is nothing out of the ordinary - the man just cannot be bothered to dress appropriately, no matter how many times he’s gotten reprimanded for it. Weiss assumes his superior officers have given up ; God knows she would have in their place. Still, half-heartedly, she says, “Do we have to be subjected to your whole bare chest? Haven’t we been through enough hardships as it is?”

Sun snorts. “We’re on vacation, Weiss. I know it’s a very new word in your vocabulary, but in my world that means I get to wear whatever I want.” He grins. “If you ask me, we should all be topless at this point.”

“Good thing we didn’t ask you, then,” Blake says drily, though the upturned corner of her mouth betrays her amusement. “Seems like a great way to get into a car accident.”

“You’re right, other drivers would be way too distracted by my pecs if they were on full display,” Sun jokes, with a serious face that lasts all of three seconds before they all burst out laughing.

It feels good, to joke around with friends, after the week they’ve had. After the years they’ve had, really. Weiss feels exhausted and almost giddy with relief: no matter what happens next, today at least they made it back, safe and victorious. And they get to relax for a couple of weeks. When Blake invited the two of them to her house, Weiss accepted without hesitation, though she was surprised the offer was extended to her. Sun and Blake have been - well, vaguely _courting_ , for lack of a better term, for half a year now. She’d have thought Blake would want to spend some time alone with him, when finally given the chance. It’s not often their free time coincides. But she’s not about to complain: there’s nothing waiting for her in Atlas, not anymore, and she’d much rather spend her precious time off with people who actually care about her. As for Sun, his only reaction was to cheer so loudly he woke up half the base, before he grabbed the two of them in a giant bear hug that Weiss, against her will, found herself more than happy to partake in. Though to be fair, Weiss never seriously expected any disappointment from him. Sun’s motto has always been the more the merrier.

And it will be nice to see Blake’s kids again, if only to assuage some of Blake’s anxiety ; Weiss knows they have been on Blake’s mind constantly, worry eating up at her even though Blake has received regular updates from Ilia confirming that they were all safe and sound.

Twenty minutes later, they reach the house, and park next to Blake’s old van, which looks somewhat different - shinier, less dusty, in better condition - than what Weiss remembers. Sun stretches as he gets out of the car, shouldering his duffel bag, hair messy from the drive. Weiss, who only brought the bare minimum, struggles to push her two full suitcases on the gravel path to the main entrance. The first thing she notices, as always, is how quiet the estate is, far away from the city, standing alone on the coast, surrounded by woodsy hills. Not in a bad way: it’s peaceful, pleasant. You could forget the world is at war, here. It’s no wonder this is where Blake chose to bring the children. 

“Where is Ilia?” Sun asks, letting his bag drop on the marble floor as he disappears in the kitchen, probably looking for a snack.

“I told her to take a few days off. She’s been here every single day this past week, she deserves it,” Blake says, absently. She cranes her neck towards the stairs, as if she’s expecting the children to come rushing in. “I’m back!” she calls out, loudly. No answer.

Weiss parks her suitcases by the stairs, and jumps three feet in the air when a horrible, shrill noise resonates in the seemingly empty house. “I hate this damn whistle of yours!” she hisses at Blake, but Blake isn’t paying attention to her. She stands still in the middle of the hall, and her neck is strained, shoulders tense. The skin between her eyebrows is wrinkled with worry. 

“Where are they?” she mutters, more to herself than to Weiss. And then her jaw tightens, and oh, no. Weiss is very familiar with this version of Blake, all steel, all stubbornness and paranoia, the surface of her hardening, brittling. She places a careful hand on Blake’s elbow, hoping for the gentle touch to ground her. “I’m sure everything is fine.”

Sun, coming back with a half-peeled banana, takes stock of the suddenly tense mood, and pats Blake’s opposite shoulder. “It’s a beautiful day - I bet they’re outside.” Despite her grumbling earlier, Weiss is glad he’s here - under his goofy attitude, Sun hides a lot of depth, and a surprisingly calming presence.

They find the backyard empty, save for birds and insects, but now that they’re outside, they hear faint yelling coming from the beach. All three of them race to the top of the cliff and peer down: not far from the pier, a rowing boat is bobbing along, and on it, three children and a woman with wild blond hair, all of them making one hell of a racket. Blake curses under her breath and makes a beeline for the stairs leading to the beach. Sun hurries down as well, and Weiss follows suit, after she gets rid of her high heels, barefoot on the stone steps and the warm sand.

She’s not worried about the children. The woman on the boat must be the person hired to watch over them, Yang Xiao Long. Weiss had been asked by Blake to vet her when Ironwood offered her name, so she knows the broad strokes: brilliant pilot, unfortunate accident. From what Blake’s shared - which isn’t much - Yang is also pretty great with the kids, though a bit of a troublemaker. But nothing indicates that she’d ever put them in danger, so Weiss isn’t worried about them. She is, however, quite worried about Blake losing her cool.

As soon as she reaches the beach, Blake blows into her whistle again, knuckles whitening around the metallic shaft, and it fulfills its purpose: the kids on the boat turn sharply towards the sound and, noticing Blake, cry out cheerfully, jumping to their feet and waving and… 

“Uh oh,” Sun says. The boat, rocked by the abrupt movement of three of its passengers, dips starkly on one side and all of them, unbalanced, tumble into the ocean, an incident that Weiss would find comic if Blake weren't so stressed about all of it. As it is, Blake starts striding forward, as if she intends to run to their rescue, but Weiss grabs her arm again, this time more firmly, stoping her in her tracks. 

“Blake, they’re fine. Calm down.”

Blake stills, grinding her teeth together. Weiss swears she sees smoke coming out of her ears. 

Oh boy, she thinks, bracing herself. This is not going to be pretty.

* * *

An impromptu swim, fully clothed, in the ocean, was not at all how Yang had planned to spend her afternoon, but she’s laughing when she emerges, hair sticky with saltwater. She's not even too worried about her arm getting wet - Dr Polendina had assured her that the prosthesis was fully waterproof, and could sustain a prolonged encounter with water. Louisa and Kurt are laughing too, but Marta looks a little less fond of the experience, so Yang grabs the little girl in her arms, and plops a wet kiss on her wet cheek. “Looks like we all fell in the water, huh? Wanna show your mom how well you can swim with your life vest?” 

Marta grins and nods and takes off paddling towards the shore with her siblings, while Yang tows the row boat back to the beach. When they make it to the sandy shore, the captain is waiting for them, hands on her hips, frowning. A couple people Yang doesn’t know stand by Blake’s side: a petite woman with white skin and whiter hair, clad in an outfit Yang is absolutely sure, even looking at it from so far away, costs more money than she’s made in a year, and a man with spiky blond hair and a friendly smile, whose army shirt is open, showing off bronze skin. Yang’s eyes register the two strangers, but her mind is elsewhere: on Blake, who came back, alive and unharmed. 

If she had the time, if she were alone, maybe she’d try to parse the complex emotions rising in her: the relief is expected, a natural thing to experience when someone comes back from a dangerous situation. But the joy is a surprise, and so is the anticipation making her heartbeat quicken. And the sort of warm fondness she feels when she notices how the sight of Blake has become familiar - the pristine uniform, white gloves tucked in her belt, tricorn hat under the arm, shoes polished to perfection ; the neat line of her shoulders, the rebellious strands of hair curling at her temples, the golden eyes - is equally confusing. Even Blake’s frown makes her smile, because truth be told, Yang’s missed it. Yang has missed Blake and everything that makes her who she is, moodiness and stubbornness included. 

(There’s a grain of wild, absurd hope, lodged somewhere in Yang’s heart, that maybe Blake missed her too.)

With a cacophony of cries and laughter, the kids, clothes soaked through, overexcited, run into Blake’s arms, and she hugs them back, of course, but there’s something not quite right in the gesture, a sense of restraint, like she’s holding back. When she looks up at Yang, it’s impossible to miss the hint of anger in her eyes.

“What were you _thinking_

_Oh. Right. Yeah, she should have seen that one coming. “Don’t worry, Captain,” Yang says, placating, walking up to the little group on the beach now that the rowing boat is secured and in no danger of floating away. ”I used to be in the air force, but I know my way around the ocean just as well. I grew up on Patch - us islanders, we learn how to swim before we even know how to walk!” The blond guy laughs at that, but the pale woman doesn’t - and Yang sees why: far from mellowing at Yang’s light tone, Blake is now full-on glaring at her._

__

“I’m not concerned about _your_ safety, Ms Xiao Long - I’m concerned about theirs,” she retorts, pointing at the children, who have stopped laughing. Blake’s voice is steady, but there’s something dangerous about it, the calm preceding the storm. “They grew up in Mistral, as inland as you can be. They sure as hell don’t have your experience on the water. Going out to sea like that, without letting anyone else know, was completely reckless. Unacceptable. Something could have happened to them, and it is your job to prevent precisely that.”

__

Now, Yang is no idiot. She’s perfectly aware that Blake is lashing out the way she is because she got scared, because she came back to an empty house and must have thought the worse. It’s been that way ever since she arrived: Blake, on edge, is not a gentle person. 

__

“Captain, are you familiar with life vests? Being in the Navy and all, I thought you might be. As you can see, all the kids are wearing one - they were perfectly safe.”

__

Her little quip somehow makes it worse - Blake’s eyes narrow, her jaw clenches - but before she can say anything, the blond man jumps in front of her, kneeling in the warm sand besides Louisa, Kurt and Marta with open arms. 

__

“Heyyyy kids! You don’t say hello? No hug for poor old Sun? What gives!”

__

“Hi Sun!” says Marta with a bright smile as she flings her little arms around his neck tightly, quickly followed by her siblings. The tension lessens considerably.

__

“What about Auntie Weiss? Think she can get some love from you guys too?”

__

“Oh my God, Sun _no_ , I told you not to call me that,” the woman - Weiss - protests, but she bends down all the same, smiling as the kids greet her with kisses on the cheek.

__

Still reeling from her brief, tense exchange with Blake, Yang can't figure out why the name sounds familiar to her ears, and she almost doesn’t catch the look Weiss sends Blake - a warning, mixed with deep-seated concern. Sun straightens up, hoisting a shrieking Louisa on top of his shoulders. 

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“Why don’t we go get you three changed, huh? Those wet clothes can’t be comfortable.” 

__

Weiss takes Kurt and Marta’s hands, and gives Yang a quiet nod, an acknowledgement, but of what Yang isn’t quite sure, and then the five of them are off towards the stairs, towards the house. And Yang and Blake are left standing alone together, on the empty sandy beach, under the bright heat of the mid-afternoon sun. Behind them, the waves roll out uninterrupted, uncaring and unaware. 

__

“If you do not take your job seriously, I see no reason to keep you around.”

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Yang tries to remain calm, mimicking Blake’s collected, level tone. “Captain, I understand how this must have looked to you, but nothing happened.” 

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“They fell in the water, Ms Xiao-Long.” 

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“And they were fine! They were laughing about it!”

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“That’s not the point.”

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“Then what the hell _is_ the point?” Yang snaps. Blake cocks her head, as if both surprised and disappointed at the clear frustration in her voice. Yang sighs. “Look, I’m not sure what happened to make you so scared for their safety, but it’s clearly making you over-react.”

__

Eyes wide with indignation, Blake recoils. “You don’t know anything about me —“

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“Not from lack of trying!” Yang interrupts her, quickly losing patience. “No offense, Captain, but I’ve met oysters that were less hard to pry open than you.” 

__

Blake, now scowling, links her hands behind her back, like the perfectly well-mannered officer she is. “Well, it seems that we are at an impasse. Let’s reconvene later, and reevaluate your qualifications for the job.” 

__

Oh no, nobody dismisses Yang like this. Two steps forward, and Yang is right in Blake’s face, looking her in the eye. “I’m not finished, Captain!” 

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“Oh yes you are, _Captain_!” There’s an awkward beat, as Blake realizes what she just called Yang. Her cheeks darken. “I mean, Ms Xiao Long.”

__

Yang can’t help feeling a little bit smug at how flustered Blake looks. But the pause in the argument helps her refocus. Sometimes, it’s good to lay everything out in the open. Sometimes, you have to be blunt, when someone refuses to acknowledge a problem. Blake’s entourage has coddled her too much, for whatever reason - and Yang doesn’t doubt there are good reasons, she knows Ilia well enough by now to understand it comes from genuine care. 

__

She thinks that perhaps it’s time someone told Blake some hard truths. Not only for the sake of her children, but for hers as well. Yang has seen her father shut down, consumed by grief, after Summer, but she’s also seen the depth of his regrets, how much he wishes he could have done more for his daughters at the time. Neither her nor Ruby truly blame him for it: he had been alone, completely, with Yang’s birth mother long gone, and Qrow still fighting in the war. But Blake is not alone. There are people willing to support her, if she would only accept the help.

__

“Whatever it is that’s haunting you, Captain, you have to let it go. You think you’re protecting the kids from it, but you’re only isolating yourself, and they need you. They need you to be _here_ for them, more than anything.”

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Blake’s only response is to raise an eyebrow, an infuriating display of carefully studied indifference. 

__

Fine. If she’s too stubborn to listen, Yang will talk specifics. “Louisa looks up to you, you know, but she’s also terribly angry! You don’t see her anger much because she’s quiet, but if you keep going like that, you’ll have a hell of a teenager on your hands.”

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“That’s enough.” Blake hasn’t moved, but her face has changed - she’s visibly unnerved. Good.

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“And Kurt! Sweet Kurt wants to please you and make you proud. He needs encouragement and praise and you can’t give that to him if you’re constantly hiding in your office, and --”

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“I said enough!”

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“-- and little Marta is too young to understand what’s going on, but you’re the only parent she’s ever really known, and she misses you so much…”

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Blake roars. “Quiet! You will not tell me about my children like you know them better than me!”

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“Someone has to!” Yang roars back. “You’re never with them long enough to notice any of it!”

__

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* * *

__

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There is no such thing as silence near the ocean, Yang knows this. Waves slam onto the shore, and slink back towards the depths. Seagulls cry out, the wind brushes sand and water alike. It’s never silent, but damn if it doesn’t get real quiet after all of this, between Blake and her.

__

Too quiet, and too still. As if Yang’s words have shocked Blake into shutting off, like an airship engine cutting out mid-flight, her face drawn, her body like a bullet shell, an empty case. She’s become a statue of herself, more stone than woman ; her cheeks have gone ashen, her lips bloodless, and her eyes are staring at Yang like she can’t quite see her, or maybe like she’s seeing her for the first time. And it pains Yang, abruptly, immensely, to see Blake in such a state, because despite it all, despite the unflattering portrait she just threw in her face, she cares. She cares very much for Blake, and she's long past denying it.

__

Maybe she went too far. Yang exhales slowly, and as she feels the breath leave her lungs, her shoulders sag, all the frustration pouring out of her ; all that remains is fatigue, and sadness, and a wave of guilt and self-loathing that threatens to swallow her whole. This was a bad idea. Confronting Blake, and all of it, really. She shouldn’t have gotten so invested. She should have just focused on doing her job, nothing else, nothing more, and let things be as they were, instead of inserting herself in the lives of these people. Blake is a person, a human being with thoughts and feelings and a past Yang knows nothing about - she’s not a damn airship to fix. 

__

People aren’t projects.

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“My apologies, Captain. I’ve overstepped. You’re right, maybe I wasn’t the right person for the job after all. I’ll get out of your way, and let General Ironwood know it didn’t work out.” And without waiting for an answer, Yang walks past the woman standing still in front of her, frozen on the warm sand. 

__

Like an automat, Yang retraces her steps : up the cliff stairs, across the backyard, through the door that links the kitchen and the patio, and into the central hall. The door to the living room is wide open, and she catches glances of the children, of Louisa wrapped in a towel much too big for her, wet hair falling on her shoulders, of Kurt excitedly telling a captive audience - Sun and Weiss, presumably - about their adventures in Forever Fall, of Marta curled on the couch sipping an apple juice, her round cheeks all tanned from the summer sun. 

__

Yang’s heart breaks at the thought of leaving them. Because she loves them, these three kids, she’s loved them ever since she met them, bad pranks and night terrors and all. And here she is, about to leave without saying goodbye.

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But she soldiers on, trying to be brave, trying to push away all thoughts except the most material of considerations: first shower, then pack, then get on her bike, and worry about the rest later. She should call Ilia to let her know, and her dad too. If she leaves now, she can probably catch the last ferry to Patch… 

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She’s made it halfway up the stairs when a familiar voice rings out in the great empty hall. “Ms Xiao Long.” 

__

Yang pauses and looks down, one hand still on the railing. Captain Blake Belladonna is standing at the foot of the stairs, still dashing as ever in her Navy uniform, but disheveled now, and a little winded. The look of someone who just ran up some very steep stairs, and did not stop once to catch her breath. 

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Blake takes a step forward, hesitant. Her eyes are on Yang and there is - oh there is something Yang has never seen before in Blake’s gaze, something that draws her in, that pulls at her like a hook sinked into her chest. 

__

“You were right,” Blake says. Her voice is different too, low and a bit hoarse, filled with an emotion Yang can’t quite pin down. “I’m sorry.” She takes another step up the stairs, and another, inching closer. “Yang…—” Yang’s heart throbs at hearing her name in Blake’s mouth for the first time, uttered so softly, carefully, pleadingly “—I want you to stay.”

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One more step. She’s close enough now that Yang can see the solemn humility in the turn of her mouth, the vulnerability of her trembling fingers. “Please, stay.” 

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“Okay,” Yang exhales. It’s the easiest decision she’s ever made.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Merry Crisis to us all.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from _The Sound of Music_ soundtrack, specifically the song "Something Good".


End file.
